


And A Garden, Drenched In Delights

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Play, BAMF Molly, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Dom Molly, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurts So Good, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Praise Kink, Sex Toys, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, The Author Regrets Nothing, Virgin Sherlock, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-26 01:03:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 44,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6217375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes has always appreciated Hooper's intellect; It takes a clever woman to fool him, after all. </p><p>But when he discovers her rather... unladylike reading habits he finds himself distracted beyond all reason: After all, though she pretends to be a man she is a woman, sweet and docile as all her kind are... Isn't she? </p><p>So why is she reading contraband books? </p><p>And why oh why does it bother him so bloody much?</p><p>AU Abominable Bride Universe, pretty much an excuse for smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Concerning Women Worthy of Praise

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. 

* * *

**~ CONCERNING WOMEN WORTHY OF PRAISE ~**

* * *

Holmes knows that he should have dismissed the book the moment he saw it.

While he may not be a good man he _is_ a gentleman, and dismissing it is precisely what a gentleman would do.

What was it to him, after all, to realise that Hooper has a copy of Burton's newest and most scandalous work, _The Perfumed Garden_ , in her possession? Why would he even note it when he saw it sticking out of her satchel one night as she headed out of the morgue and home to bed? Had he still been under the impression that the good doctor was male then he wouldn't even have thought to note it; men had urges and they satisfied them in whatever ways they saw fit-

But, of course, he thinks darkly, the rub is that he now knows Hooper _isn't_ male, and he thus now knows just how rebellious an act it is for her to own that book, newly translated from the Arabic and said to be wholly salacious in its discussion of coital acts. In fact, it was said to be so incendiary that few would even admit to knowing what it was.

And there were few places in London where she could have gotten it, and even fewer where they would have sold it to her were she to ask for it dressed in the clothing of her own sex-

The thought causes an odd… tightening, in the region of Holmes' belly as he imagines her, flitting through Paternoster Square in her men's apparel, joking with those booksellers from whom she might buy such a work about why she might need it. How she might tell them about having a wife or a sweetheart who required she learn an extra trick or two, in order to keep their interest or expedite her own. As he imagines this, Holmes leans back in the seat of his hansom cab, fingers steepled before his chin, his mind wandering with possibilities… _The image is surprisingly engaging…_

He's so lost to his speculations that it takes him a moment to realise he's reached his destination at Baker Street and that he needs to get out now.

The cabbie taps the horse, causing it to give the hansom a jolt and Holmes takes the hint, hops out and pays his fare. It's snowing when he alights, an icy breeze ripping through the air and tugging at his clothes, his hair. It raises gooseflesh on his arms. The chill of it quietens that tightness in his belly and he shakes his head to himself. Tells himself to dismiss his discovery about Hooper. He has an evening of violin to look forward to, and then perhaps a pipe before he finally succumbs to his body's needs and allows himself to sleep… _He hasn't slept since he revealed the nature of the Martins' deceit and he supposes he should rest after so diverting a case…_

He's inside his rooms, Mrs. Hudson thankfully not having noticed his arrival, when he realises that he's still thinking about Hooper and that damn book of hers.

He can still picture it, poking innocently out of her bag as she bid he and Watson goodnight.

He grits his teeth at the realisation, annoyance at himself for not being able to control his thoughts making him irritable. He is, after all, being ridiculous; He shouldn't be thinking about Hooper of all people, being possession of a salacious book. It's not like she's the first person of his acquaintance to take an interest in erotica and other prurient literature, he tell himself. Watson's collection of books during his tenure at Baker Street had been far from suitable for public consumption.

So why is the thought of Hooper, dressed as a man and carrying salacious contraband, tugging at his attention like a dog on a leash?

 _Maybe, that big brain of yours is trying to tell you something_ , he hears Adler's voice lilt mockingly in his head.

As always he sees her in his mind, her mouth a slash of red, her pale body covered in nothing but her ill-gotten diamonds.

Again Holmes grits his teeth, in no humour to listen to The Woman play her games with him, even if she is a figment of his imagination-

 _Oh no, dear boy,_ he hears her say. _It's not_ _ **me**_ _you want to play games with…_

And another image floods his mind, Hooper with her hair down and no moustache, still dressed in her men's clothes though her feet are bare.

Her shirt is unbuttoned to the valley between her breasts and Holmes can see that she's wearing neither shift nor corset, in fact her lovely skin is bare…

"Shut up," he hisses to himself, closing his eyes and attempting to dismiss the image.

He will not be made a slave to his baser desires; He is the world's only consulting detective, damnation, not some lust-addled, green boy-

But even as he tells himself this, he sees Hooper smiling. Coming towards him. She's pulling her braces down over her shoulders and slowly, slowly, unbuttoning her shirt. Unbuttoning her trousers. She steps out of them, showing him lovely, elegantly swelling hips. A pair of long, lean legs. She's only wearing her shirt now, all the buttons open, the two sides of the garment hanging over her breasts though it barely covers them. The flesh he can see beneath is creamy and smooth, the aureoles of her nipples outlined slightly beneath the fabric of the shirt-

"Enough!" And Holmes pulls his coat off, slams it onto the hook behind the door.

In high dudgeon now, he stalks into his room and pulls out his violin, begins running his way through a Paganini piece which he's been trying to master for weeks.

He swears to himself as he plays, forcing himself to concentrate on his musicianship, forcing himself not to think anymore about Hooper-

He goes to bed after a good two hours' practice, his fingers aching and his mind- he hopes- exhausted.

He falls into a troubles sleep, though when he wakes he can't remember what caused the turbulence of his dreams.

His thighs, however, are spattered with white.

* * *

 _The Perfumed Garden_ is an Arabic erotic treatise which was first translated into English by Sir Richard Burton in 1886. Burton's translation caused a massive stir in Victorian England though it is now regarded as exceptionally inaccurate and prurient. An accurate translation by Jim Colville has been available since 1999.


	2. Knots, and Their Tying

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Slight discussion of rope play, nothing graphic... We're still getting there... 

* * *

~ **ON KNOTS AND THEIR TYING ~**

* * *

 

Holmes scrubs himself with icy cold water the next morning, taking particular care to clean his belly and thighs. His member.

He finds himself unusually eager to be rid of the evidence of where his dreams led him and so he goes about his task with more vigour than it might otherwise deserve.

As he washes he tries to focus on the coming day: Normally his coming in the night wouldn't bother him- the desire for sexual congress is innate and biological, even he must admit that- but for some reason yesternight's dreams have left him feeling rather… Prurient. Crude.

While he can't remember them clearly, he has no doubt that Hooper took a major part in them. For that reason he finds their recollection rather… horrifying.

After all, he'll have to visit the morgue soon, tie up some loose ends in the Martin case and he wants to be able to look the young pathologist in the eye when he does so.

Such a thing will not be possible, he knows, should the images from last night continue dancing behind his eyeballs.

Unfortunately for him, however, it seems the universe is intent upon causing him hardship, because at precisely three minutes past eleven a telegram arrives from Lestrade, informing Holmes that his presence is required for a murder in Whitechapel. A body has been found in a bawdy house, and Mycroft would like Sherlock's help in proving the innocence of the rather lovely… professional who was found with it.

It seems that, thanks to his work for the government, Mycroft owes this courtesan rather a large favour and she has elected to collect.

This in itself is not a problem- Holmes has plenty of experience with opium dens, doss houses and all manner of unseemly businesses. He is also always eager to get more information on the idiocies with which his species amuses itself, and on his beloved London's less well-known vices.

The fact that the coroner on the scene is one Matthew Hooper however- the very creature who featured so mortifyingly in Holmes' dreams last night- _is_ a problem.

A massive, massive problem.

Again that image of her from last night, the one of her in naught but a shirt, pops into his mind and for a moment Holmes actually considers not heeding his brother's call, pleading some sort of illness or experiment that might reasonably make him unable to come in to the crime scene-

 _Are you a man or a mouse?_ He asks himself, disgusted, as he pulls on his coat.

_Surely you're not afraid of Hooper-_ _**Are you** _ _?_

He tells himself that of course he isn't- That he's no earthly reason to worry about seeing her-him-her- and that he should just stop being so damn foolish.

He spends the entire journey to Whitechapel with Adler's laughter ringing in his head, the knowledge that he's dissembling an irritating, awkward thing.

* * *

 When he gets to the bawdy-house, the others are already there. Lestrade, Dimmock and Hooper are all waiting in a room set well back from the street, standing around the body of a man who is obviously very, very dead.

As always when he encounters a corpse, Holmes finds himself hoping (oft-times in vain) that its case will be something more than a five.

_The signs this time at least look promising._

The victim is middle-aged and portly, obviously well off; A signet ring on his ring hand tells Sherlock that this man's wealth- and he would need to be wealthy, considering his choice of brothel- does not come from trade. His face is purple and mottled, mouth pulled open in a grimace. His eyes- staring, bloodshot- have not been touched and his hands are clenched into claws, fingernails digging into his palms. Both have been tied behind his back. His hair is white, threaded with grey, his soft, fleshy build telling Holmes that he had never had to engage in manual labour-

But the most notable thing about the victim- aside from the fact that he is completely naked and still prick-proud, even in death- is that he is covered entirely with thick, knotted ropes.

They twine and catch around his torso, digging into his chest. His thighs. His biceps.

They form a diamond-shaped, asymmetrical pattern which Holmes must admit he finds quite beautiful.

An elaborately-knotted rope has been tied around the man's member, so tightly that the mere sight of it seems to make Lestrade and Dimmock uncomfortable. (Hooper merely looks curious).

 _Well,_ Holmes thinks. _It does make one wonder what exactly Mycroft gets up to without me…_

And he frowns, leaning down and examining the knots. These were clearly not meant to disable or to capture: Their patterns are too obviously beautiful, their placement too obviously prurient. This man would have been able to move and kick, though it would have hurt him to do so; He could, if necessary, have lifted himself from his seat and run, but he had not.

 _An odd thought, that_ , Holmes muses.

_What, besides nudity and embarrassment, could have kept him in place?_

He frowns again, cocking his head as he stares down at the corpse and as he does he sees Hooper move out of the corner of his eye, hunkering down so she's beside him. She's wearing her disguise- her moustache, her wig, or men's clothes, and the sight of her once again sends that mortifying… something tightening in Sherlock's belly.

If he gives an outward indication of this, she must not notice- _Or at least, he hopes she does not._

"Do you know much about this place, Holmes?" she asks, sotto voce, clearly trying to keep her words from the two policemen behind them.

He weighs carefully what to tell her, before deciding honesty would probably be the best course. "I know what sort of brothel it is," he says, voice equally quiet. "I passed one of the rooms on the way down and saw two of the, ahem, governesses, dealing with a client.

They were beating him with birch canes and nettles."

Hooper nods thoughtfully. "This is of a similar vein to that," she says, indicating the knots on the corpse. "The governess here keeps a woman from Japan who specialises in this sort of play- The rope is jute, a traditional choice for those in her profession."

Holmes' frown grows darker. "And you know this how, exactly?"

Hooper shoots him an impish look, one eyebrow cocked in challenge. "We all have our little secrets, Mr. Holmes," she says wryly. "Pray don't ask me to reveal mine."

Her grin widens and the tightness in his belly gets worse.

Perhaps his thunderous expression has some effect on her, for she sighs. "The woman they found with him- a Madame Tamasuke- is a native of Kyoto," she says. "She came here several years ago with an American protector and has been using her skills to make a living ever since- A living which, if the rumours are to be believed, is very lucrative."

Hooper indicates the corpse.

"Tying the body in this manner interferes with blood flow; this in turn makes the body more sensitive, more susceptible to, well, to stimulation…"

Now it's Holmes' turn to cock an eyebrow.

"And again- You know this how?"

Hooper's smile turns wicked. "Can't you deduce it?" she asks coyly. "Do that little magic trick of yours?" Her eyes are dark. "Or could it be that I am still immune, hmm?"

And, as if unbidden, an image pops into his head, Hooper, wrapped loosely in a heavy silk peignoir, long hair down and falling over her bare shoulders.

She has a length of jute rope in her hands and she's smiling, biting her lip as she twists it between her hands, pulling it tighter and then tighter again.

Inside his mind, Holmes sees her lean over, pushing someone onto his back, her small, pale hands pressing the rope sharply into the person's bare torso- into _his_ bare torso-

"Christ."

He swears rather more loudly than he intended, causing everyone in the room- including Hooper- to blink at him. Both Lestrade and Dimmock as him what's wrong but he waves them away, unwilling to explain.

_He's never admitting_ _**that** _ _to anyone._

"It's the rope," he says instead. "Someone's coated it in a quick-acting poison." He points to a tiny abrasion on the victim's wrist. "Probably got into the blood-stream there and then travelled through the body. Him jerking and kicking wouldn't have seemed odd, not with what he was paying to have done to him."

Dimmock claps his hands and rubs them together. "Excellent," he says. "So it _was_ the tart, I told you Lestrade-"

Both Holmes and Hooper roll their eyes at the exact same moment.

"It wasn't the prostitute," Holmes snaps. "She has no motive- In fact, an accident like this could destroy her career. No, look for whomever has the most vicious professional rivalry with her and begin your search there-"

And with that he gets to his feet. Brushes the knees of his trousers off.

He makes a point not to look at Hooper.

"Now if you'll excuse me," he says, trying his best to regain his dignity, "I really have better things to be getting on with."

And with that, he beats a hasty retreat.

* * *

 He swears he feels Hooper's eyes on his back the entire way out of the bawdy house, just as he swears he can feel them on him in the hansom he takes back home.

He swears he feels them too as he lies back in his bed in Baker Street and takes himself in hand, furtive and embarrassed by his arousal, an image of Madame Tamasuke's knots dancing behind his eyes.

When he comes it's sharp. Delicious.

It knocks all the energy and tension out of him.

He lies in bed in the pale afternoon light and tells himself he's not imagining what else Hooper might know about the tying of knots, but even he can't bring himself to believe the lie.


	3. A Celibate's Progress

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. **Please note that this chapter contains references to cross-dressing and implications of prostitution,** so consider yourself forewarned. Oh, and thanks for their reviews go to Sherlockian_87, MaybeItsJustMyType, MizJoely and kathmak989. Enjoy!

* * *

~ **A CELIBATE** **'** **S PROGRESS ~**

* * *

 

It's like a dam's been broken inside him.

After that day in the bawdy house, Sherlock finds himself entirely unable to maintain his self-control.

He wakes every morning, having tossed and turned all night, his mind conjuring all manner of depravities; His reward for this is either a morning cock-stand or an ejaculate-spattered set of sheets. And yet he can't help himself, the images just keep coming: Hooper, wearing nothing but an embroidered Japanese silk robe as she straddles him. Hooper, wearing her full disguise as he sits in a chair and she rocks lewdly in his lap until he's so hard his cock and balls ache. Hooper, a length of rope held in her hands as she ties his wrists to the posts of his bed and proceeds to- there is no other way to phrase it- have her wicked way with him. Repeatedly. He begs her not to stop the entire way through it.

It is a situation which utterly perplexes and bewilders him. He hasn't a clue what to make of it.

After all these years of holding that the pleasures of the flesh hold no interest for him, he can't imagine why he's suddenly obsessed with them now.

And the worst of it is, not only does he finds himself imagining these things- these lewd, lascivious, delicious things which he knows should disgust him- but he's fairly certain Hooper knows too. It's in the way her eyes light up with this lovely, predatory light whenever she sees him. In the way she now lowers her voice to a purr whenever they speak to one another, consulting over a body or even disagreeing over a crime. She finds excuses now to stand close- too close- and to touch him, to place one of her strong, delicate hands against the small of his back. His wrist.

More than once when they've argued she's gotten so close their chests were practically touching, their lips close enough to kiss-

When Sherlock looks at her he can see the mocking innocence in her expression, as if she's daring him to say something.

More than once he's been tempted to snap out her secret to all and sundry, to wipe that obnoxious, knowing smile from her face, but he doesn't.

His current difficulties- and her current devilment- notwithstanding, Hooper is by far the finest professional of her kind in the city: Having her removed from her post would be inconvenient, however momentarily satisfying he might find it.

And besides, deep down he knows that were he to do such a thing she would never speak to him again, and that thought… Oh, that thought plagues him.

However little he likes her coquetry and flirtation, he would like her absence even less.

So he grits his teeth. Tells himself that such is life and he had better just get on with things. He knows better than most that he is no sort of ladies' man and that his chances of winning Hooper's attentions are non-existent; She may be willing to get her own back on him for his earlier treatment of her by teasing his lechery, but he has not a doubt that she actively dislikes him.

Their daily spats offer definitive proof of that.

It is precisely this certainty of disinterest which trips him up one night when he encounters Hooper, whilst out for what he will always claim was an evening stroll…

* * *

 At first, he doesn't realise it's her.

She's standing with her back to him, you see, and while he may have spent a great deal of time thinking about Hooper over the last few months, he has never grown so coarse as the actually stare at her backside, lovely as it is.

(They do usually meet over a dead body whilst surrounded by police, which makes his taking in her physical charms even less likely.)

So when he sees her standing at the corner of Covent Garden, wearing evening wear and a brand new top hat, looking for all the world like a young buck out for an evening's entertainment, it takes Holmes a moment to realise who he's looking at.

He blames that for why he stares.

He blames that for not realising which particular part of the Covent Garden flesh markets he's in.

He also blames that for why she manages to catch him staring, having turned around and clocked his interest, confusion and then that predatory, sultry interest flitting across her face-

She walks over to him, her gait jaunty and self-assured. Cocky.

After all, she _is_ just another young buck, out for an evening's entertainment and willing to pay a bonny face for the privilege- Just like every other tom in this corner of Covent Garden.

The thought makes Holmes feel decidedly… uneasy.

When she's a scant few inches away from him she leans in, breathes in his ear.

"You see something you like here, sweetheart?"

The luscious grin gets wider as she tips her hat rakishly to him.

Holmes blinks- he's never been spoken to in such an openly inviting tone- but before he can answer Hooper closes the miniscule distance between them.

Gazes up at him with those fine, dark brown eyes of hers.

"Are you shy, sweetheart?" she purrs. "I can imagine you must be very popular, mustn't you, Mr..?"

And she lets the question hang on the air, licking her lips.

Her gaze practically smoulders.

If Holmes lives to be a hundred, he will never know what possessed him to say what he says next, and yet-

"William," he says, his throat catching. "They call me William."

That tightness in his belly is back- it feels as if his skin has become too tight and mortifyingly, he can feel himself beginning to become hard.

_Lord, what manner of degenerate is he?_

"William," Hooper grins, her lips caressing the word. It causes a shot of heat to travel straight to Holmes' cock-stand. "A fine name for a fine man." Her hand traces its way delicately up his shirt front. "And what are you doing here on a night like this, William? Looking for some company?"

And she reaches into her coat pocket, pulls out a small bill-fold.

She's discrete but she lets him see the money, just as she lets him see her wide, satisfied grin.

Holmes' cheeks stain red, mortification washing through him. For some odd reason, it makes his cock even harder and once more he is forced to ponder what sort of degenerate he must be. For while he knows the reputation Covent Garden has as a red-light district, and moreover he knows the reputation _this corner_ of Covent Garden has for the procurement of young men, he's never before been propositioned by a would-be client-

As he's thinking this, Hooper takes out a couple of bills and tucks them calmly into his inside pocket.

Holmes fancies her fingers burn, wherever they make contact with his shirt-clad chest.

"You always think too much," she says quietly.

Her smile widens.

"You'll find I know the cure for that."

And with that she takes his hand in hers and pulls him towards a hansom. Once they're inside she leans over and kisses him, very swiftly and softly, on his mouth.

"You and I," she says, "are going to have so much fun together- William."

And with that the cabbie shakes the reins and the hansom cab takes off.

She keeps Holmes' hand in hers the entire ride.


	4. On The Pleasures of Congress

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to WillSherJohnKhan, MizJoely, Sherlockian_87, oOKatiekinsOo, gabriella_t, Roz1013, Westwinder, renniejoy and InMollysWildestDreams- I hope you enjoy this, there's more to come (though not tonight). **Please be aware that this chapter contains some D/s elements, which aren't everyone's cup of tea**. If they are, however, _your_ cup of tea then read on... 

* * *

~ **ON THE PLEASURES OF CONGRESS ~**

* * *

 

"Is it the suit?" Hooper asks wryly, "or the moustache?"

And she steps closer to Holmes, forcing him to take a step backwards until his back collides with her front door.

Her single, paltry gas lamp throws fabulous, garish shadows throughout the room.

She's taken him to an address in Chinatown, a little one-roomed flat over an opium den which seems to vibrate with the sounds of nightlife pouring in from outside-

Belatedly Holmes realises that she's addressing him.

"What was that?" he asks, trying very hard to sound arch and rather aware that he's not succeeding.

If it bothers her, Hooper gives no indication, merely cocks an insouciant eyebrow, moves a little closer.

"I said," she murmurs, making sure to enunciate, her white-gloved hands at his chest, "Is it the suit or the moustache that gives you the… shall we say, tingles?"

Her tone is amused.

"After all, I didn't get this sort of reaction from you when you saw me with my lovely, _feminine_ hair down…"

And she reaches up, presses a single, scorching little kiss to his Adam's apple. Then his jaw.

Holmes frowns, oddly affronted at that.

"I had just discovered you were involved in a plot to cause the death of a prominent member of the aristocracy," he points out. "However much he may have deserved it."

He adds the latter when he sees her set her mouth into what he knows in her most argumentative expression.

It is, he must admit, an expression with which he is rather familiar. 

"Surely you can't hold me accountable," he continues, "for not noticing your ladylike charms when you were explaining to me why you and your friends had concocted a murder scheme-"

Again Hooper laughs. "So that's it?" she says. "You were just distracted by the Bride. It wasn't that you find anything alluring about the notion of a woman dressed as a man?"

As she speaks she steps away from him, removes her top hat.

Jacket.

Waistcoat.

Holmes swallows as he sees her hands move to the buttons of her shirt before she shakes her head. Moves away from him.

She sashays back towards the centre of the room, her swaying hips oddly hypnotic in her masculine garb.

"No," she's saying. "That's for later- I'd rather have _my_ treat now."

And she reaches into the drawer of a dresser to her right, pulls out a cigarette and leans over the gas lamp to light it. The flare of flame limns her face in ochre and gold; her eyes are pools of darkness.

Smoke swirls about her in elegant, spiralling patterns and Holmes finds himself transfixed.

"And what's your... treat?" he asks.

His voice has gone husky with arousal and he doesn't want to think about why.

"Why, I should think that was obvious," she answers. " _You're_ my treat- What was it you said to call you? William?"

Holmes nods dumbly.

"William it is, then." Her smile turns wicked. "Now take off your clothes, there's a good boy, and I'll set about thoroughly debauching you- Would you like that?"

And there's something about the way she says the words, something so, so _filthy_ that Holmes finds himself blushing. Nodding. Without his quite deciding to, his hands go to his coat, his jacket and waistcoat.

Both are pushed harshly away until they pool in a heap on the ground.

With shaking hands Holmes sets to opening his cuffs and collar, pulling all three stiff pieces of paper out and dropping them to join their comrades on the floor before pushing his braces down over his shoulders. Starting on his shirt-buttons.

His heart is beating so loudly and his breath's catching. Short.

He can feel her gaze on him the entire time.

When he's opened the shirt he unhitches the braces and pulls both them and the linen off. His skin prickles slightly when it comes into contact with the cool air of the room.

He must give some indication of this because Hooper clicks her tongue in mock-disappointment, carefully places her cigarette in an ashtray beside her before moving to stand in front of him. Her glove-covered hands reach out and stroke across his belly, his chest, raising flares of heat wherever she touches.

"Are you cold?" she asks and he nods. "Let me help you, then, sweetheart."

And she points to the centre of the room, the fire. It's blazing heartily, probably built by her landlady since she doesn't appear to have the wealth it would take to keep even a day maid. Silently Holmes pads inside, takes a place in front of the fire. He's not sure what she means for him to do here.

It is, however, warmer than where he was standing by her door.

At this thought he turns to face the heat and when he does he feels more than hears Hooper pad into place behind him. Her still-gloved hands slide up his shoulders, around to his chest, their touch gentle. Soft. Soothing. After a moment of this Holmes relaxes, allowing himself to take in a deep breath and simply enjoy the sensation of the fire and her hands on him-

His eyes drift shut, head tipping back and as soon as it does he feels one of her hands scrape up his chest, taking his left nipple and tugging it sharply. Harshly.

The pain is bright. Beautiful.

He gasps and his cock flares into near-full hardness.

At the same moment she does this her other hand travels down his body, cupping him and pressing firmly. Stroking him. Pleasuring him. _Her fingers feel so good_. He grunts, embarrassed to have made so animalistic a sound and again her fingers twist sharply at his nipple. Again she pulls it tight. Her teeth nip at his shoulder, pain flaring beneath his skin; She licks the mark, her hand still stroking and pleasuring his cock, his hips starting to jerk and move, his breath growing shorter-

"There it is," she murmurs. "There it is- Doesn't that feel good, William?"

He nods and the hand at his chest traces up his arm, into his hair.

She tugs at his curls sharply, forcing his head back even further as her hands tighten on his cock.

"I asked you a question," she's saying. "And you will answer. Now, does that feel good, William?"

He nods, his breath stuttering. "Yes- Yes it does-"

"And do you want it to continue?" she demands.

Again he nods, only remembering he must speak when she tugs on his hair again.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, it- I want- Can you-"

He can't seem to gather the words together.

"Can I what?" She sounds amused and again mortification twines through his insides. Such humiliation shouldn't make him more aroused.

_And yet…_

"Can you..?" He's not sure he can bring himself to speak the words, but then- "Can you… fuck me?"

Once the words are out, he can't seem to stop talking. They stream out of him like they've a life of their own.

"Please," he babbles, "Please, I want it so much- I want _you_ so much-"

He can hear the triumph in her voice. "You want me to what? To fuck you?"

He nods desperately, pressing harder into her hand. "Yes, yes please. Please, Hooper, please, I want it- I need it-"

"And what will you do to earn it?"

Her voice has an odd quality to it now, dark and intoxicating as whisky. It coats his insides, makes him shiver, and he hears his voice say the words even before he realises that he's ready to say them.

"Anything," he pants, "I'll do anything to earn it, if you'll only- If you would just- Oh please, fuck me…"

"We have an accord, Mr. Holmes."

And he hears her give a dark, gorgeous chuckle. The hand in his hair is now scratching lightly at his scalp and it feels far better than he can believe. The hand at his cock is still working him too, still making him feel good, making him feel eager-

And then suddenly that hand is gone, and she's pulling down sharply on his hair again.

This time, because she's stepped away, the sudden tug unbalances him.

He shudders to his knees, his long limbs tangling together as he turns to look accusingly at Hooper, to find out why she did that-

The sight that meets him, however, takes his breath away.

For she's sitting, sprawled on the sofa in front of her fire, taking a last, lingering drag on her cigarette. She's tugged her moustache, wig and gloves off, though she still wears her men's clothes. Her long, brown hair hangs loose about her shoulders and glints in the light, swathed as she is by smoke and shadow; She's tugged her shirt collar loose too, and she's pulling open the buttons on her trousers with one hand, the other stubbing out her smoke. As Holmes watches, she pulls the fly wide, shifting the fabric so that it exposes her cunny to his view- She's not wearing her smalls. The hair on it her mound is dark and, as she slides her fingers down and pulls the lips apart he can see that the flesh is slick. Pink. Ready.

He sucks in a breath at the view.

When he looks up at her face she cocks an insolent eyebrow.

"You said you'd do anything to earn a good fucking," she points out archly.

Holmes swallows.

"I would," he says, "but I've never, with a- That is to say-"

"Have you ever been with a man?" she asks quietly, reading between the lines as always, and he shakes his head. He knows the assumptions about he and John (and occasionally he and John and Mary) but he can honestly say he has never been in this situation before.

_He never thought he would be either, but here he is._

He sees something move through her eyes though, something kind. Understanding. Almost gentle. It makes his heart ache oddly to see it. For slowly, sweetly, she slides one finger inside herself. Coaxing. Stroking. She keeps her gaze on him the entire time. As he watches he sees how she concentrates on one spot, near the apex of that lovely, wet place between her legs and he realises with a start that this must be the seat of her pleasure.

He's heard such things whispered about, but never thought he'd know from his own experience.

"Does that..?" He clears his throat. "Does that feel… good?"

"Mmm." She nods. Gasps as she must find a particularly sensitive spot. "It will feel even better when it's your tongue and not my fingers," she says and Holmes doesn't know what to say to that.

He couldn't speak anyway; His mouth is rather dry.

But she crooks the index finger of her free hand, beckons him towards her. He goes to stand but she shakes her head.

"On your knees," she tells him and it doesn't even occur to him not to comply. In fact the notion of it makes him… sigh, some of the stress in him winding away.

His cock hangs, heavy and ready between his thighs and he can't bring himself to mind.

So he crawls forward, forward, until he's right in front of her, until she raises one leg and slides it over his shoulder while her free hand tightens in his curls again. While she leans down and hooks her wet fingers into his mouth and tells him to suck, tells him to taste, tells him that this is what he's been waiting for and he finds he believes her-

And then she's pulled his head towards her and he's buried in her lap, his mouth and nose and lips deep in her. Breathing her in, tasting that arousing, womanly essence. Trying with all that's in him to help her find that pleasure her own fingers wrought. Her hands rest on the back of his head, directing him. Tugging his head this way and that. She's thrusting herself lewdly against his mouth and it feels so good he's not sure he'll survive it-

He hears a hiss of pleasure, a sharp, "Oh," and then she's shuddering. Shaking. Gasping.

Her back arches, thighs spasming tightly to grip his head- his shoulder- to her.

She mutters to herself that he's absolutely fucking beautiful and to Holmes' delight and complete embarrassment he feels himself tip over into his own climax at her praise, emptying himself into his clothing, his seed slipping and sliding down the sensitized skin of his thighs. The valley between his buttocks.

He feels every muscle in his body tighten, then release; He shivers with the pleasure of it.

And then he realises with a shy, surprised, _proud_ smile that they've both found their climax, even as she pulls him up to straddle her and kisses him wantonly, winding him in her arms.

* * *

 


	5. Puer Defututus

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. **Please note that this is still pretty much smutty filthy smut (just in case that's not your cup of tea.)** Thanks for their reviews go to Roz1013, WillSherJohnKhan, leidibrf, renniejoy, PirateJenny, Sherlockian_87, MizJoely and gabriella_t. Enjoy!

* * *

~ **PUER DEFUTUTUS ~**

* * *

 

"You really are the most beautiful, filthy boy."

And Hooper breaks their kiss, pulling away from him. Gasping in breath and laughing before raking a hand through her hair. Grinning lecherously down at him.

Without his quite meaning to, Holmes finds himself grinning back at her.

"You liked that, didn't you?" she says and he nods., leaning eagerly forward to kiss her again. His arms can't seem to get enough of holding her. She permits it, her tongue tangling with his, her hands raking through his hair and pulling him more forcefully to her before pushing him down onto his back. Playfully pressing his arms above his head, holding them against the cushions. She moves, straddling his hips and as she does her bared belly must press against the wetness of his climax because he sees the realisation light in her eyes. Sees the wicked knowingness which blooms there.

It is somehow simultaneously wonderful and completely mortifying.

Scarlet floods Holmes' face and he breaks eye contact, embarrassment at having been found to have soiled his clothes so thoroughly warring with an odd sort of pride. A queer… delight in having her notice.

If he hadn't just come so thoroughly then he suspects this feeling would be making his cock harden right now.

Perhaps Hooper guesses as much, for she transfers both his wrists to one hand, her other snaking down his body to press once again against his cloth-covered prick.

When she feels the wetness for herself her smile turns incendiary.

"Did you come just from giving me pleasure, sweetheart?" she asks with mock-coyness and despite his embarrassment he nods again. His tongue feels thick in his mouth but oh, the feel of her body against his is so bloody good.

He'll do anything to keep her there.

"You were- What you said-" He's being foolish and incoherent and he hates it, he hates that he can't just bloody come out with what he means-

"I always knew you were beautiful," she coos, pressing a kiss to his lips to silence him. With easy, practiced hands she opens his flies, reaches inside his smallclothes. He feels a flare of disappointment that the cock she'll handle won't be hard for her, as hard as he knows she would like. As hard as he knows he can be for her. But if she finds anything wrong she gives no indication of it; Rather, she strokes her hand over his belly, his member, coating her fingers in the thick, white spatter of his ejaculate.

It feels… It feels utterly depraved and utterly heavenly.

The mere thought of it is enough to make Holmes' breath catch.

When she lifts her hands out of his trousers her fingers are spotted with white, his seed still drying. She brings them to her nose and breathes the scent in before darting her tongue out, licking a tiny spot of liquid from her skin. She hums in approval at the taste. Finally she releases his hands and pulls open the buttons of her shirt with her free hand, yanking down the wrapping she keeps over her breasts to maintain her masculine disguise before bringing her hand to her nipples and twirling them between thumb and forefinger, coating them in his come.

She moans as she does so.

Holmes joins her.

He gives another involuntary little moan at the sight and once again she grins that lewd, gorgeous smile at him before bringing her hand down to his mouth. Running her thumb gently along his lower lip.

"Open up," she murmurs. "See how wonderful you taste."

Keeping his eyes upon her, Holmes does as he's told.

He sucks her thumb into his mouth; it feels so, so utterly, brazenly _lewd_ that he thinks his heart is going to hammer right out of his chest.

The taste of salt and himself, a combination he never before thought to sample, explodes upon his tongue and as he licks her fingers more thoroughly she reaches down and kisses him again. This time he can taste both himself and her sweat on her lips; Without any warning she again digs her hands into his hair, pulling his head up towards her white-spattered breasts.

She doesn't even have to tell him- he knows what to do and he does it.

_Of course, he'll do this for her._

Without being prompted he takes one damp nipple in his mouth, licks it clean. She breathes out that he needs to suck harder and he complies- It feels so good to comply for her. _It feels almost as good as her hands on him or the taste of her on his tongue._ He's never understood men's fascination with breasts before and yet at this moment he's not sure he could pull away from hers if he tried: they're beautiful. Ripe. They fill his mouth. The scent of her skin and her sweat is intoxicating, as is her breasts' weight against his cheeks. His jaw.

One nipple clean, he turns his attention to her other breast, suckling and nuzzling, the feel of the soft, warm flesh against his skin making him pant in enjoyment-

"You're good at that, sweetheart," she moans. "Oh, I always knew you'd be good at that, my sweet, dirty boy…"

And she takes her hands from his hair, pulls her braces down over her shoulders. She shrugs out of her shirt and reaches behind her back, starts unbinding the linens she usually ties over her breasts. Holmes has to lean back a little to so she can let them fall loose. When she does he looks up at her, finally getting to see her naked in the way he has so often pictured her-

"Do you still like what you see?" she asks archly and he nods.

"You're- You're beautiful, Hooper," he says quietly, and he doesn't know how that word, so appropriate for her, sounds so wrong when coming from him.

_He doesn't want to think about why that might be._

Something moves in her eyes though, that same almost-gentle something he saw when he told her he'd never before been with a woman but before he can say anything it's gone, her lascivious smile back.

She's grinning at him, a cunning little vixen of a woman and despite himself, despite all he's put his body through this last hour Holmes feels himself beginning to become hard again.

She must feel it too for her grin widens and she presses her hips down on him. The motion feels so good it drags a small, wretched little groan out of him. She looks unbelievably, unbearably debauched, straddling his lap, her breasts bare and her hair down, her braces hanging over her thighs and backside, her men's trousers and shoes still covering her lower half and Holmes can feel it rising again, this mad desire for her, this mad desire to have her do things to him-

"You really are a man of many talents," she purrs, upping her pace. "There's precious few can get hard again so soon…"

And she presses sharply down on him, grinning in delight. He hisses at the pleasure of it.

"I doubt it's my expertise," he grits out. "I suspect it's more the skill and loveliness of the woman debauching me-"

She laughs lightly, her hips moving more sharply, her pace quickening. "Well," she whispers in his ear, nipping at his earlobe, "you did beg me to fuck you-"

Holmes' eyes fly open at that, even as the pleasure she's giving him increases with her pace.

"I did not beg," he says sharply.

_What Irene Adler had never gotten out of him Hooper certainly would not be able to claim._

Hooper leans down though and with surprising suddenness grabs both his hands again, presses them into the sofa above his head.

Her breasts feel warm and heavy and delicious against the bare skin of his chest; The sense of being stretched out, laid open for her, makes his cock ache in a wonderful way. He can feel himself hardening, that strange, queer pleasure moving through him again as she takes charge. As she gives him what he wants. What he needs.

"You begged," she says evenly. "You begged, and you enjoyed the begging."

She moves and suddenly she's pulled her trousers down, her knees resting on his palms, her cunny right over his face.

The heat and nearness of her make his mouth water.

"You wanted to please me, Holmes," he can hear her saying "You enjoy pleasing me, whether you want to admit it or no. And if you did not- Why, you'd not be panting to bury that delicious tongue inside me again, would you?

But you are."

Again he feels her hand rake his hair.

The pain makes him gasp.

"Admit it and I'll move," she's saying. "Admit you begged and that you'll beg some more and I'll do so many wonderful, obscene things to you that you'll be chanting my name in your prayers by evening."

And suddenly her hand reaches down and wraps around his length. He's still wet and sticky from his first climax, and the feel of it is lubrication enough for her to start caressing him. _It feels unbelievably good_. She starts moving her hips too, pressing herself into his mouth and then pulling away. Teasing him. Tempting him. He can hear her laughter, low and smoky, and it's that which does it, that which breaks the dam of obstinacy inside him, for-

"Yes," he finally pants. "Yes, I begged.

Yes, I'll do it again."

And suddenly she's moved away, her cunny replaced by her mouth. Her lips. Both her hands land in his hair and she tugs so hard he sees stars. She kisses him almost savagely, her hands raking his backside as she roughly pulls his trousers down and off. Her passion is a wonder and any lingering, remaining hints of civility Holmes may have been holding onto abandon him.

_The will to do anything but be hers and hers alone just ups and leaves him in the dust._

So when she tangles her tongue with his, he chases it back into her mouth. When she suckles his tongue and rakes her nails across the sensitive skin of his bare chest, he moans and mewls for her. Pleads with her to fuck him, to do with him what she will. When she slides her hands down and pumps his prick, he chants her praises like a litany. When her hot, wet, perfect mouth slides over him and begins to suckle him, he swears by every star in heaven there's nothing she can't make him do- 

And when she finally manoeuvres herself so that she can take him inside her, when he feels the perfect, wet, entirely new sensation of his cock buried in another being, in that moment he howls for her. Pleads with her. Tells her he's hers to do with as she pleases. That he always will be. That this is what he's always wanted.

It's quick, her climax. Loud. Fearless.

She comes while he's still buried balls-deep within her, her head tipped back, her face a mask of ecstasy and of lust.

She keeps fucking him through it, riding him, taking him, and when he comes it feels like he's sliding apart, his atoms flying into a billion pieces and then racing back together in the space of a single heart-beat. His very being is shaken and lost before arising anew, somehow the same though he's never before felt this sensation-

It shakes him. Makes him tremble.

It almost makes him feel humble.

When he comes back to himself, he's holding onto her so tightly. She's pressing kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, cooing about how good he was for her. How much she enjoyed debauching him.

He wraps his arms around her and in that moment, he lets himself wonder why he never allowed himself this pleasure before today.

 


	6. Sed Non Satiata

****

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to lilsherlockian1975, Roz1013, Raelynn, Icecat62, leidibrf, oOKatiekinsOo, Sherlockian_87, Emma_Lynch, MizJoely and devilgrrl. Enjoy... 

* * *

**~ SED NON SATIATA ~**

* * *

They sleep after that, or at least he does. (Whether Hooper does, he can't tell for sure).

He has no intention of doing so but the feel of her warm body pressed against him, combined with his physical and emotional release after so long keeping his desires pent up, means that he no sooner closes his eyes then he's slipped into the arms of Morpheus.

He doesn't dream that night, he rests.

When he wakes in dawn's pale light he feels thoroughly, utterly refreshed.

The realisation surprises him greatly.

He blinks into the semi-darkness, feels the warmth of Hooper's body pressed into his side. (He's rather surprised to find her arms wrapped loosely- almost possessively- about his waist). In sleep she looks young, innocent, her long, dusty lashes feathering against her cheeks, her thin-lipped mouth lax. Her breathing is gentle, soothing. Her entire body feels heavy with satiation.

With curious, gentle fingers Holmes brushes her hair away from her forehead, stares at her.

Once he's certain she's still sleeping, he presses a single kiss to her cheek.

He reddens as he does it, thankful she's asleep. Unsure why the thought of doing such a thing when she's awake makes him uncomfortable. She shifts, nuzzling into his chest and murmuring something he doesn't catch before tightening her grip on him. Pressing a sleepy kiss to his chest. His shoulder.

She sighs in contentment as she does it, her face pulling into a contented smile.

Holmes lets his head fall back on her pillow, looking up at the ceiling and concentrating on the feel of this moment, this sensation. He's never had one like it before, and he knows that once she awakes he may never have another.

He hears the barkers calling to one another outside, the slow bustle of Chinatown waking up but he doesn't move, doesn't even stir.

Eventually, he falls back asleep.

* * *

The second time he awakes the room is flooded with buttery yellow light.

He opens his eyes to the sound of humming, hears someone- Hooper, of course- pottering quietly around the room.

He hears the pull of a heavy chair on a thin, scratchy rug, hears her take a seat on it. As she does he sits up on his elbows, takes in the scene before him: Hooper is sitting in front of her dressing-table mirror, carefully wrapping a set of fresh linens about her chest. Binding and flattening her breasts so that nobody will suspect her gender.

She hair still hangs loose against her back like a long, dark veil.

She sees his reflection in the mirror, sees him looking and offers him a faint smile.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Holmes blurts out and she shrugs. Turns back to the looking-glass. (She's making sure that her disguise will be effective, he realises).

"Many things hurt," she says conversationally, carefully tucking the linens in. Turning this way and that, checking them from every angle.

The illusion is surprisingly effective, Holmes thinks.

"You should start getting dressed," she adds in that same conversational tone. "You'll not be the first man who's wandered out of this building after a night of sin, but you'd be the most famous- Can't have the press getting wind and all that."

Her smile turns slightly wry. "Will you be able to make yourself presentable without the aid of a valet?"

Holmes cocks a slightly indignant eyebrow. "I haven't had a valet since I was a boy, I assure you," he says archly. He sits up, muscles a little stiff from last night's… adventures, and sets about arranging the sheets so that his naked body won't be visible. After a moment he halts, realising how ridiculous a worry that is after all he and Hooper have done together and he hears her give a snort of amusement.

"Feeling shy?" she asks innocently and he glowers at her; Rather pointedly, he kicks his way out of the bedclothes and stands right in front of her, his hands on his hips, his expression daring her to say anything.

This insouciance lasts exactly as long as it takes for her gaze to drop to his penis.

After that he is affixed, certainly, to the spot where he stands but insouciant is the last thing he feels.

For, despite her seeming aloofness, he sees Hooper's tongue dart out to wet her lips, eyes widening a miniscule amount in appreciation of his manhood.

Heat warms her cheeks and her breathing grows a little shallower, her gaze becoming ever so slightly hooded.

She stands, comes towards him, the linens she was using to bind her breasts fluttering about her like ribbons and once again Holmes feels it, that queer mix of embarrassment and pride from last night. That sense of pleasure in the humiliation of being looked over as if he is no more than a prize breeding stud, no more than an ornament for her to admire.

_And yet…_

"Do you like what you see?" he asks quietly and she nods.

Her gaze has turned heated. Greedy, almost.

Holmes knows it should look covetous, contemptible, to him but it does not.

_No, to him it looks very beautiful._

"I'll never get an ounce of work done," she breathes, apparently to herself. "Not with that picture inside my head-"

"You'd imagine me like this when I come into the morgue?" Holmes blinks, surprised and not entirely pleased by this news. It sets the same confusing pleasure roiling through him as the notion of his own humiliation does. "You'd picture me-"

"Oh, I'd picture you," she breathes, nodding. She begins circling him. "I'd picture you, tied down to one of the patient beds and naked. I'd picture you, bent over my dissection table and prone, begging me to do with you what I will-"

Holmes takes in a shallow breath, painfully aware his cock is beginning to harden.

By the looks of things, Hooper's not in a much better state.

"And what are you doing to me, when I'm bent over that dissection table?" he asks quietly. "You're not- You don't want to-"

"Hurt you? No." The voice is coy. Kind. Soothing. Hooper shakes her head, comes padding softly towards him. There's that same predatory light in her eyes from last night, as if she's forgotten everything but the here and now.

Her hips sway, her eyes darkening with lust.

"I'd never hurt you, sweet boy," she's murmuring. "Well… Not unless you asked me to."

Despite himself, Holmes sucks in a breath at that. She's right in front of him now, close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to kneel before.

_Why oh why does her nearness always make him think about kneeling?_

He doesn't understand it.

"But oh, the things I could do to you," she continues, her hands tracing up his belly now. His chest. "The pleasures I could visit on this perfect, sweet flesh. This beautiful, plump arse."

Her hands slither down to knead and pinch his buttocks, her breath warm against his bared throat.

She meets his gaze, holds it as her fingers ghost over the curve of his arse-cheeks, her thumbs sliding gently inwards to part them, her left thumb circling the tight, puckered hole of his anus.

Holmes' breath stutters in his chest.

They both moan and just like last night, Holmes feels himself giving in, feels himself letting go of everything but the will to do as she bids him. She's perfectly right, of course, the city's waking up and he can't afford to be seen sneaking out of a woman- or indeed, a man's- house in this part of town.

But none of that seems to matter when her hands are on him, when she's touching him. None of that matters when she's exploring his body with that sense of lewdness and forthrightness which seems so entirely hers. He tilts his head back, giving into the pleasure. His own hands slide over her shoulders, move down to caress her breasts. He longs to fill his mouth with them, and he finds he doesn't care, not at all, for what anyone will say about him, for what anyone will call him for indulging in this predilection-

And then the door to the room across the hall slams suddenly open, the sound of loud, angry male footsteps thundering towards the stairs making them both jump.

Hooper moves so quickly that Holmes' hands slide away from her breasts, the left skidding over her arm, the right sliding down over her hip and as he does so, his right palm splays against the warm flesh of her belly. Grips her.

He frowns, feeling something unexpected beneath his fingers.

For it's a scar. A small, raised scar.

It is placed discretely enough to not be obvious, but it is a scar all the same.

He sees the instant Hooper realises what he's discovered for she stiffens. Moves away from him. For the first time in all of this she seems discomfited, hurrying over to her wardrobe to hunt out a clean shirt and slip it on. She goes searching for her trousers next. She's so frazzled she seems to have forgotten to bind her breasts fully but when Holmes opens his mouth to remind her she speaks over him-

"You should go," she says.

"I-"

"You should go," she repeats. "It won't go well for either of us if you're seen here."

And she hurries back to her vanity, starts pulling her long, thick hair into a plait before pinning it to her head.

Her wig is sitting on a china phrenologist's model of a human head and once her plait's in place she starts tucking it on, clucking to herself in the mirror as she does.

Holmes frowns, unsure what to do; Obviously, she's correct in that it would do either of them any good for him to be caught here. Whatever damage (or embellishment) it may do to his reputation, Hooper is carrying a rather large secret and having it come out would have massive, unpleasant consequences for her. And yet, he can't help but think that this is less about her finally coming to her senses and more about not wishing to discuss his little discovery. Her manner, harried and impatient, would seem to support that notion, as would the fact that she's having trouble looking at him.

_It really is most peculiar; he hasn't a notion what she's about._

He wonders idly whether it's feminine vanity, embarrassment over being marked, but he somehow doubts it: Hooper is the least vain woman he's ever met, if she's willing to dress as a man to pursue her profession. And even in their own interactions, there's little evidence that she feels the need to primp or play the coquette. Her manner is so wonderfully forthright, after all. She is so very at home in her own skin.

_And yet… And yet…_

"You should go," he hears her say again. She sound like she's getting angry. "Good lord, Holmes, what do you want? An engraved bloody invitation?"

And she stands, stomps towards the door leading to the house's shared toilet.

Her expression is best described as put out.

"You can find your clothes," she tells him. "Put them on.

And then stop endangering us both."

By the time Holmes hears to water flush he's already fully dressed and walking out the front door.


	7. Sharp Sighs

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Icecat62, lilsherlockian1975, devilgrrl, chasingbluefish and tut1b. Enjoy. 

* * *

~ **SHARP SIGHS ~**

* * *

Holmes makes his way home quickly, his mind awhirl.

He mutters to himself as he walks, trying to work out what the Hell just happened between he and Hooper, how so pleasant an encounter ended up concluding with so unpleasant a farewell. Why the mere touch of his hands against something so small as that scar had infuriated her.

He can't make heads or tails of it, and the thought irritates him.

Deeply.

People see him on the street but give him a wide berth- _they know who he is, after all-_ so that by the time he gets back to Baker Street he hasn't said a word to a single soul. (He is, however, reasonably sure nobody saw him leaving Chinatown, given how early in the day it was when he snuck away). When he gets home he finds neither Mrs. Hudson nor young Archie have missed him, his unexplained absences being commonplace and thus not the sort of thing they might remark upon-

For some reason he cannot fathom, this annoys him no end.

It's almost like… It's almost like he wants them to have noticed he was gone, just so that he can come up with a lie to cover it.

Without their notice, it feels almost like his interlude with Hooper didn't happen at all, and he finds that thought infuriating. Bewildering.

_Why in heavens is he behaving thus?_

Not knowing what to do about it- and having been informed, forcefully, that shooting the walls was no longer acceptable tenant behaviour by Mrs. Hudson, if it ever was- he finds himself pacing. Muttering to himself. He tries to pick up his violin but finds he can't concentrate. The same thing happens when he tries to read. Tries to start an experiment. Tries to light a pipe.

Eventually he even loads his pistol, Mrs. Hudson and her wall-based imprecations be damned, but before he can get halfway through the procedure he loses interest.

The realisation makes him grit his teeth and swear.

It even makes him think about taking something stronger than a pipe, a desire he hasn't had in a quite a while.

He pictures the look on Hooper's face the one and only time he turned up at the morgue inebriated for a case and immediately the desire for his own, particular, seven percent solution disappears, more's the pity.

_It's as if, even though she all but threw him out of her flat this morning he still finds himself wanting to please her, even when she's not here._

At this thought he throws himself into his chair with a loud harrumph, utterly disgusted with all of Creation in general and himself in particular. He can't believe he's- He's- He's _feeling things_. Feeling things, and wanting things, and regretting things, and feeling annoyed by his capacity to do all three. Good lord, were he to have foreseen accepting Hooper's attentions would have such an effect, he'd have never agreed- _He'd have turned around, post haste, and head straight back to Baker Street-_

He's contemplating this still when he hears Watson's footsteps on the stairs, followed closely by those of his wife.

Mary has secreted a pistol somewhere about her person, Holmes can tell by her gat, though whether her husband is aware of this or not is anyone's guess.

Nevertheless, given his agitated state Holmes finds himself happy- eager even- to speak to the Watsons. It will, at least, provide him with some distraction. He even deigns to run his hands though his hair, taming his curls somewhat and straightening his clothes, lest the eagle-eyed Mrs. Watson somehow look at him and conjure just what sort of mischief he got into last night.

At the thought he balks, knowing that if there's one thing he has no desire to talk to Mary about, it's the subject of coitus and his own adventures with it.

His attempts at restoring his appearance, however, last precisely as long as it takes Watson and Mary to enter his rooms, look him over once and then turn to look at one another.

"Well," John says to his wife, his cheeks colouring slightly. "You were right: he was enjoying himself last night. Remind me never to doubt you again, my dove."

And he pulls a silver guinea from his pocket, hands it to her.

Mary's smile is delighted.

"Don't worry," she coos, "I'll get you out of that habit, husband, even if it kills you."

And her grin widens as she makes her way to John's usual chair, straightening out her skirts before perching upon it. Folding her hands in her lap, looking every inch the virtuous, modest wife.

The sight of it makes even Holmes' mouth tick up slightly in amusement.

"Do you wish to discuss what happened, Sherlock?" she asks politely. "Or are you currently resolved to secrecy?"

Holmes blinks. Opens his mouth to ask her what the devil she's getting at but she raises a single, admonishing finger in warning.

"Oh no, dear-heart," she says lightly. "You forget: I can tell when you're fibbing. And any denials you make would be fibbing of a most egregious kind, don't you think?"

She throws a look at her husband, who's still smiling, the idiot.

"Most egregious," John concurs and Holmes shoots him a filthy look.

At this, the doctor openly chortles.

For a moment the detective considers arguing, lying, telling them to go away. Anything, rather than admit just why he's in the mood he's currently in. After running through his options, however, he settles instead for glowering at Mary before flinging himself dissolutely back into his chair. Huffing out a sigh.

He hears Watson give another snort of laughter and this time he openly glares at him.

"Come now, old friend," Watson says. "You can speak of this to us: Have you and she had a fight?"

Holmes gathers together every ounce of archness he has in his armoury and cocks an eyebrow.

"And which _she_ is this, pray tell?" he inquires snidely.

Watson crosses his arms. Cocks an eyebrow right back at him.

"Unless I'm very much mistaken, the lovely Dr. Hooper," he says evenly. "I see the way you look at her when you think I'm not paying attention- Which is always." He shrugs as his friend's rapidly reddening cheeks. "Mycroft said you were seen in the vicinity of Chinatown with a young man- he sent us to check on you- but it wasn't a young man you were with, was it?

No, it was Dr. Hooper."

And he sits back, well satisfied with his deduction. Holmes opens his mouth to contradict his friend but before he can Mary chimes in with, "I can still tell when you're fibbing, Sherlock," and he closes his mouth with a sharp snap. Crosses his own arms again.

He is not going to tell them anything, he decides.

_He's not telling them a single bloody thing._

Unfortunately however, if there's one thing at which both Watsons excel, it's at the art of letting one stew in one's own juices. Were such an athletic endeavour, they'd be world champions at it by now. The two sit, and wait, and let the silence spread out, a silence they seem to know is bloody-well gnawing at Holmes-

"Fine!" he snaps. "I shall speak of it." He shoots Mary a deeply unimpressed look. "Although, just so we're clear, it is merely because I may require some insight from the fairer sex, not because I respond to dull, childish things like being sent to Coventry."

Mary inclines her head. "Duly noted."

Watson snorts- "What was it you said about being able to tell when he's lying?"- but Mary quiets him with a gently hush.

She has that light in her eyes she gets when she's sighted a target; it makes Holmes uncomfortable on general bloody principles.

"Did you two have a fight?" she asks and, frowning, he nods. "About what?"

If there is one thing which Holmes hates admitting it's this, but- "I don't know," he bites out.

Watson's eyebrows rise. "You don't know?"

Holmes grits his teeth and nods. "I don't know," he repeats. "And I assure you, that is not something to which I lightly admit."

The doctor frowns though, moving to perch on the arm of his old chair, beside his wife. The two exchange looks and Holmes recognises their expressions: They're trying to work out the politest way to ask if he's been rude to someone.

In fairness, he does understand why it's their first assumption.

The notion that he has done something, however, that _he_ caused what happened this morning when he didn't care a jot about her damn scar, that acts as kindling to the very feelings of anxiety he was trying to deal with when they arrived.

As swift as the touch of match to gunpowder, his emotions flare into life again.

Without even deciding to move he finds himself on his feet, finds himself pacing as he snaps out a quick defence of everything he's done.

"It was fine!" he says sharply, painfully aware his voice is rising. "We had- We were-" His cheeks turn a darker red, embarrassment snarling at his insides- "It was wonderful, and delightful, and really, really, bloody brilliant, and then suddenly, for no apparent reason, she got angry and ordered me to leave-"

"She ordered you to leave?" Watson asks. "You mean you spent the night with her?"

Holmes shoots his friend his patented _Don't Be An Idiot_ look.

"Of course I spent the night," he snaps. "You already know I spent the night with her, it's why Mycroft sent you here. Besides, if one's going to be debauched, one should at least set aside a few hours for the task, surely?"

He hears Mary give something that sounds suspiciously like a strangled snort of laughter and he turns his ire on her.

"Do you think this is funny?" he snaps. "Do you think this, this awful feeling is funny?"

Mary's tone is calm. Even. Her expression is cunning though.

"And what awful feeling is that?" she asks mildly.

Holmes rakes his hands through his hair. _He's not sure he can explain it_. "I feel like, like something's sitting on my chest," he says sharply. "Something heavy. It's as if-" He frowns, trying to find the words. "It's as if my innards are in knots. As if I want to rage and I want to weep and I want to break things, all at the same time. And even though I know I didn't do anything wrong I still feel like I must have done-"

He all but growls the next.

"It feels absolutely wretched."

And he looks at her, shaking his head to himself. He doesn't want to even look at Mary, and yet-

"Oh, dear-heart."

And to his surprise, Mary's expression gentles. John's too. His friend squeezes his shoulder as his wife envelopes Holmes' hands in her own; It's ridiculous but their reactions calms him somewhat.

"So… Is this normal?" he asks after a moment and Watson nods.

"Terribly normal," he says, "after a fight with one you love."

Holmes frowns. "I don't know Hooper well enough to love her," he points out sensibly but his friend shrugs.

"There are other kinds of love besides the romantic," he says. "She's your friend, isn't she? Arguing with a friend would make you feel wretched, would it not?"

Holmes shakes his head though, not sure he understands. He and Hooper are more than friends, he supposes, though they are perhaps still less than lovers, for all they've shared.

_Is that what John means?_

"So what do I do?" he asks instead, rather than inviting his friends to help him ponder that. He feels an odd sense of… reluctance when he contemplates describing what he and Hooper shared to others. Not shame exactly, more possessiveness: These memories, these experiences, they're his. Not anyone else's, his.

_And he's hers._

He knows that notion makes no sense at all and yet he can't seem to dismiss it.

Instead he deigns to listen to the Watsons have to say.

And what they have to say is clear: He must go to her. Ask what has upset her. Ask her why she has become angry and explain that he is upset too. He should do this when there is nobody about to listen, when she can be truthful in what she says. That means not doing it in the Morgue, apparently- _As if he hadn't figured that out for himself_ \- and not speaking to her when she is worried about being overheard. It means probably inviting her to Baker Street and actually being a gentleman when she arrives-

"And that will fix it?" Holmes asks.

He thinks this doubtful.

Watson and his wife exchange the sort of looks which suggest they agree with this assessment.

"It will give you both an opportunity to fix things," Mary says softly, and Holmes elects to believe her. "It will give you a chance to try and works things out… Though it's only a chance. Nothing more."

But a chance is better than nothing, Holmes thinks, and even just discussing this with John and Mary has made him feel better. So he sets out for Barts, intent on speaking with Hooper.

By the time he arrives however, blood has already been spilled in the Morgue and it's all that imbecile Anderson's fault.


	8. Delicate Monsters

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to lilsherlockian1975, devilgrrl, Sherlockian_87, renniejoy, MizJoely, Icecat62 and Emma_Lynch. Enjoy.

* * *

~ **DELICATE MONSTERS ~**

* * *

He enters the Morgue to the sounds of shouting, of objects being knocked over and thrown.

He can hear Anderson yelling bloody murder, demanding somebody come and help him; Not really being in the humour to help the man, however- _Is_ _**anyone**_ _ever in the humour to help Anderson?_ -Holmes does not quicken his pace, nor does he worry.

If Anderson were truly badly injured then he wouldn't be able to spend so much time pacing and yelling, the detective knows well.

Thus, Holmes is merely mildly curious about what's going on when he turns the corner into the Morgue. He can see Anderson, red-faced and gesticulating wildly at another man standing on the far side of the room.

The other man's back is to him.

Holmes halts, cocks an eyebrow, about to wryly ask what's going on: Alas, this amusement lasts precisely as long as it takes him to see Anderson turning, his swinging his arm back to deliver a blow to the man he's arguing with.

For, with a start Holmes realises that the person Anderson's about to strike is Hooper.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the next few moments- and his reaction to this discovery- end up being a little… blurry.

And by blurry, he means panicked.

Without quite realising what he's doing, Holmes finds his feet carrying him swiftly forwards, his arms already out-stretched and preparing to pull the odious Anderson off of Hooper. What punishment he will visit upon the blighter while he's doing so is something which he refuses to think about, lest such calm consideration interfere with his desire to enact his revenge.

Such righteous fury proves unnecessary, however, for before he can take even three steps he sees Hooper jerk her leg upwards, slamming her knee into Anderson's crotch with unmerciful force before swinging her fist at his jaw and knocking him several feet away from her. He lets out a breathless, "Oomph!" before stumbling drunkenly backwards, unsure, apparently, whether to attend to his manhood first or his jaw-

The expression on Hooper's face offers an unsurprising lack of sympathy and it makes Holmes smile savagely.

As he watches she stalks forward, towering over the other man (well, as much as someone under five foot can tower) and glowering down at him.

Her wig is mussed (though thankfully it has remained on) and her eyes are blazing.

"Should you ever repeat that assertion about Holmes, Mr. Anderson," she's biting out, "then I assure you a bruised jaw will be the least of your problems-

Are we clear?"

And she turns, no doubt meaning to sweep out of the Morgue and walking straight into Sherlock instead.

Their bodies slam together roughly and both jump back as if they had been scalded; Indeed, the detective is so skittish he damn near trips over his own feet.

For a moment they merely stare at one another, each perturbed and embarrassed, Anderson and his mewling forgotten as they gape with wary, wide eyes-

Holmes opens up his mouth to apologise but as he does his attention narrows to Hooper's face- Or rather, it narrows to the damage which has been done to it.

The sight is rather awful.

Hooper's left eye is blackening, the lid swelling shut. The bruise at her jaw tells a similar story of fisticuffs, while a further glance down shows her limping slightly and that her knuckles are scraped and bloodied, doubtless from the same altercation. Holmes doesn't need his skills to deduce that her assailant is the same height and weight as Anderson, that much is bloody obvious.

It is only with great difficulty that he keeps himself from immediately turning around and going to work on the already-beaten Morgue attendant.

For rage, incandescent rage of the sort Holmes has rarely felt except when he has seen those he loves in danger fills him, burning through bone and sinew and hissing into his bloodstream. Making it boil. It's been a damn long time since he's felt so furious, and it's been a damn long time since he's been so determined to do something about it-

His gaze darts to Anderson, his body canting towards him in an obvious desire to enact revenge but before he can move he feels Hooper's small, strong hand lock around his wrist. Stay him. He blinks at her in confusion, not sure why she's holding him still but she shakes her head. Murmurs no.

He stares at her with a mix of disbelief and stupification and, very gently, she tugs him towards her.

"Come, check my nose isn't broken, Mr. Holmes," she says evenly, being sure to pitch her voice to its usual, pseudo-masculine level. "Young Phillip and I had a mere disagreement- It won't happen again, will it Phillip?"

And she shoots Anderson a quelling look, her cocked eyebrow a challenge. _She is, after all, his direct superior._ He grunts something out which sounds vaguely like acquiescence before turning his attention back to his injuries. He's managed to right himself slightly, and now he's curling into a ball, trying to control his breathing; His face is sweaty and dark red with pain and Holmes feels a visceral stab of pleasure at the sight.

_Serves him right, the damn bastard._

"Come, Holmes," Hooper repeats. "My nose hurts- I'd like to get it checked now, if you please."

And she tugs gently on his arm again. Gestures to Stamford's office, at the back of the Morgue. For a moment Holmes's gaze flicks between he and Anderson, the desire to harm the man who harmed his woman refusing to abate. The desire to make sure Anderson knows precisely how many protectors the young pathologist has in her corner crowding out his wiser, more gentlemanly tendencies.

But then-

"It was just a disagreement between two lads, Holmes," Hooper murmurs, her grip on him tightening, and he belatedly realises what she's trying to say. What this must look like. He meets her gaze and he sees it there, the knowledge she can't say out loud: Holmes can't be so protective towards a fellow man. He wouldn't be so stricken, even at the thought of someone harming Watson, or his brother. He wouldn't try to fight their battles, he wouldn't be horrified at the notion that anyone raised a hand to them.

 _No, he wouldn't expect to defend a fellow_ _**man** _ _at all, not unless he was severely outnumbered._

And if he is to help Hooper maintain her disguise, he realises, then he cannot react to her injuries any differently than he would were she any other man.

He must not be tender. He must not be gentle. She must be a comrade to him, nothing more.

Bitterness wells in his mouth, his lips pulling sharply downward as he realises what he must do. What's expected of him. He only hopes that once he and Hooper are away from prying eyes he will be able to show her his true feelings at seeing her so hurt and make sure she is well.

So he takes a deep breath. Nods. Draws that cloak of calmness and hauteur which he so often wears around himself and looks snidely down his nose at Anderson, before turning his attention back to Hooper.

"I'll need light," he says sharply. "We'd best bring you upstairs to one of the private wards to have a look at that."

She inclines her head tightly, letting go of his wrist. He can see from her expression that she understands he has mastered himself sufficiently to do as she requires.

"Right you are," she says calmly. "Let's get started then."

And she steps promptly away from him, heading towards the stairs which lead to the part of the hospital dedicated to the living.

By some miracle Holmes manages to follow her, and he manages to keep himself from pulling her close until they're safely ensconced above.

* * *

Once they've entered the first private room they could find and locked the door, he turns back to her.

She's standing, staring pointedly at her feet, her hands stuffed in her pockets. It makes her look like nothing so much as a recalcitrant schoolboy.

Now that they're alone- and that the initial rush of anger is calming- Holmes finds himself tongue-tied, unsure what to say to her. After all, he still has no idea what set her off this morning.

"You could check my nose," she points out quietly.

Holmes takes a couple of small, ginger steps closer to her and he notes the way she curls her hands into fists in her pockets, as if she has to force herself not to take a step back from him.

He finds the realisation surprisingly… unpleasant.

"Dare I ask what happened?" he says nevertheless, tipping her chin gently upwards and probing her face as gently as he can.

A faint smile tilts her lips before she frowns, hissing in pain.

"Anderson said something which was not to my liking," she replies shortly. "He made an off-colour comment about you and Dr. Watson, the latest of many, as no doubt you know. But this time… This time…"

She sighs, puffs a small, irritated breath out through her cheeks.

It looks rather… sweet, Holmes can't help but notice.

"This time," she's saying, "I wasn't of a mind to turn a deaf ear. I told him to mind his language and his manners, that he wasn't to speak of you thus. So he pushed himself into my face, tried to force me to back down-" She shakes her head in exasperation.

"You'd think he assumed I'd never been in a fight, the way he behaved-"

Holmes blinks. "You've- You've been subjected to violence?" he asks, surprised and a trifle horrified.

She shoots him a look of disbelief. "Of course I have," she says. "I was a poor student making my way through medical school, you've no idea how many ignorant toffs I had to fight off-"

And she suddenly trails off, cheeks reddening. Eyes to the ground.

Her shoulders hunch in on themselves and it takes Holmes a moment to realise that she believes she just insulted him.

_He won't have her thinking that._

Frowning, (and hoping he doesn't make things worse) he takes this opportunity to step close to her. Put a hand on her shoulder. He's rather relieved when she doesn't shrug it away.

"They beat me too," he says quietly. "Too clever for my own good, they said. Too odd. Too different." He looks away, the pain of the memory making his mouth curl. "They called me deviant. Said I was freakish-"

She looks up at him suddenly, her brown eyes dark. She takes his face in her hands with surprising tenderness. "May I thump them too?" she asks dryly and Holmes smiles. Shakes his head. He leans his forehead on hers, sighing as she slowly slips her arms around his waist and pulls him closer. She feels suddenly little, despite her fierceness.

He finds that he likes it.

"They're just idiots," he says. "Anderson. Those boys who beat and chased me. Those boys who hurt you. They're all still stupid, jealous morons and that will have to be enough of a punishment."

"If you say so." And just like that, the stress seems to go out of her. She blinks up at him and he reaches out. Brushes his thumb softly across her cheek, then her lip. She hisses in pain but when he flinches and tries to pull away she doesn't let him.

On the contrary, she holds onto him tighter. Holds his gaze. The heat of it makes him shiver.

"Check my nose, Holmes," she says and, still gripping his hand, she tows him towards the examination table. Turns towards him expectantly. He lifts her easily and sets her upon it, the warmth and nearness of her setting his senses alight. She sits, her short legs swinging in space; after a moment, in order to facilitate his getting close enough to touch her, she parts her thighs and allows him to stand between them.

Despite himself, Holmes swallows as he does so.

"You needn't worry," she murmurs, "I'll not take advantage." Now, it seems, it's her turn to redden. "I doubt I've the right, considering how I behaved earlier this morning."

Holmes frowns, seeing his opening. _He hopes he can say this right_. "Was there a reason you spoke thus?" he asks quietly. "Or did I just… Did I just go and spoil things?

I do have form for that, I am aware-"

"It wasn't you." And she shakes her head, her hands coming down to clasp his. She takes both, lifts them to her lips and presses a kiss to each of his knuckles in turn. "You did nothing which requires apology," she says softly. "You merely touched upon some memories which I find rather painful."

"Memories to do with this?"

And he pulls one hand free, slides it up her hip to the place where he'd touched her this morning. She stiffens slightly but doesn't pull away, merely hooks her calves around his thighs, pulling him closer. With another sigh she wraps her arms around him until they're chest to chest. She lays her head upon his heart, ear turned to listen to its rhythm.

The silence stretches out.

"It's not something I like to talk about," she whispers eventually. "Remembering Seb and all that happened after the accident is rather, well, rather horrible."

He thinks he sees. "So Seb was your husband?" he asks and she blinks. Looks up at him.

"No magic," he says, guessing the cause of her surprise. "Merely observation: You're of too advanced an age to have never been married, Hooper. Your comfort with the, ahem, the act of marital love suggests that last night was not your first dalliance, even if it was mine.

"And the fact that you managed to move to London and attend medical school means you must have had access to funds with which to support yourself, funds no husband or father would access for such a purpose-"

"I could have an independent income," she points out.

He shakes his head. "Unlikely. If you had one of those and were intent on living as a man then you'd have set up a fine practice in a wealthy area- You've more than enough talent to do such a thing." He shoots her a small smile. "But no, you stay in the Morgue, in a dark environment where nobody would ever think to look for a woman-" He frowns, something occurring to him- "Almost as if you're keeping out of sight-"

"And if I am?"

The words are whispered, her teeth worrying her lip. Holmes frowns down at her, trying to deduce her but as always he finds himself blinded by, well, by sentiment where she is concerned. For a moment he thinks of asking her what she means but then she reaches up suddenly. Kisses him. She pulls him forcefully to her, arms tightening around him as she holds him with the fiercest grip he's ever felt.

"I'll tell you," she murmurs against his lips. "I'll tell you someday, Holmes, I swear to you on my sweet young Thomas' grave. But not today." She nips his lip. "Not today, sweetheart."

And with that she pulls him down to the examination table and kisses him passionately. Within moments she has him panting, and desperate for her, as desperate as she seems to be for him.

They're in there an hour, "checking over her injuries," and by the time they emerge Holmes has an engagement to dine with her at Baker Street that night.

* * *

A/N For those who are curious, yes I'm aware that Hooper mentioned both a Seb and a Thomas. What could that mean..? (Dum dum duuuumm!!)

 


	9. The Chambers of The Heart

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. **More smut ahoy, you have been warned**. Thanks for their reviews go to Sherlockian_87, Icecat62, devilgrrl, anonymouslass, lilsherlockian1975, chasingbluefish, Nydamascus97, gabriella_t, DamselInDeduction and MerriWyllow. Enjoy!

* * *

~ **THE CHAMBERS OF THE HEART ~**

* * *

By the time Hooper arrives, Holmes has managed to get himself into a bit of a… lather.

It's not that he's nervous, he insists to himself, so much as the fact that he's not had a lady to dine in 221b since, well, ever.

When Watson and he lived together the dined out, either at their respective clubs or in Mrs. Hudson's teashop downstairs, the kitchen never being in a sufficient state of cleanliness to facilitate the cooking of a safely edible meal. Once the good doctor left to live with his Mary Holmes had spent even less time eating at home, and had thus never had any reason to clean the kitchen enough that he might start cooking in there- Or, more likely, secure a day girl to come in and cook for him.

None of which would bother him, save for the fact that he had invited Hooper to dine with him and, having spent a fascinating day in Scotland Yard looking at older cases, he is now faced with the obviousness of his home's inadequacy in this area-

 _It really is rather annoying,_ he sniffs, _that he can_ _'_ _t at least slightly impress Hooper with his home_.

So when he hears the doorbell ring- it can only be she- he stomps towards the stairs in bit of a panic, wondering what excuses he will have to make and whether his guest will object to having to go out to eat-

Mrs. Hudson makes it to the front door before he can, however, and leads Hooper up the stairs with a bright grin. As usual she shows not an ounce of restraint, bustling about the flat and "explaining," how the state of the place is nothing to do with her.

Despite Sherlock's embarrassment, Hooper looks amused, her dark eyes shining brightly as she places a bottle of claret and a covered basket on his experiments table.

A delicious smell is emanating from the latter.

"You needn't worry, Mrs. Hudson," she tells the older woman with mock-seriousness. "I know Holmes well; I've no doubt the state of the flat is his doing, not yours."

Hudson's eyes light up. "Oh!" she coos. "Finally, a gentleman with sense- I thought I'd never see the like again once John left, but here you are."

Hooper smiles, throwing an amused, fond glance at Sherlock and as she does so he sees his landlady's gaze flicker between them, that same knowingness which used to haunt her expression when he was with John lighting her eyes.

_Drat._

He opens his mouth, about to warn her to keep her opinions to herself but she must read his expression for her grin merely widens, mischief written all over her face.

"Well!" she says, "I'll let you two gents get on with your meal. I'm going over to see my old friend Alice tonight and- just so you know- I won't be back for hours. Maybe not even tonight." She shoots Holmes a wink. "You two boys can make as much noise as you please, whatever it is you want to do together, and I'll be none the wiser-"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock doesn't mean the words to come out do loud but he's already stressed and her innuendo is not making things any easier.

Somewhat mortifyingly, both Hudson and Hooper snicker and he shoots the older woman a glare, one to which she seems remarkably immune, if the answering kiss she blows him is any indication.

With a last grin at Sherlock- and an attempt to straighten his hair which he waves away- she toddles out. Clatters downstairs. She calls out an incredibly loud goodbye mere moments later and slams the front door, as if to assure her tenant and his guest that they are indeed alone.

Holmes throws a chagrined look at Hooper but she's still smiling, the amusement written all over her face. Feeling defensive, he crosses his arms over his chest and she again snorts with laughter, sidling up to him until they're nearly nose to nose, crossing her own arms in a mirror-image of his pose.

"So," she says wryly. "That was the famous Mrs. Hudson."

He sighs. "Yes, for my sins. That was she." He takes a deep breath in through his nose, uncrosses his arms. He has an almost overwhelming desire to rake his fingers through his hair. To his surprise however, Hooper steps even closer to him. Reaches out and places her hands against his chest. He can feel each one of her fingers, ten pricks of heat through the fabric of his shirt, and despite his annoyance he calms a little.

"There's no food," he says quietly and she nods.

"I thought as much," she says. "You didn't strike me as the sort who cooks." She chucks her chin towards the basket she brought with her. Smiles. "So I took the liberty- If you don't mind..?"

He nods, frowning as she presses lightly against his chest and walking him back towards his chaise long. She presses gently against his chest and, taking the hint, he drops to the chair. Still smiling at him, she sidles away with a mischievous grin, picking up both basket and wine before moving to join in on the couch.

She puts the basket beside him and then straddles him, her thighs on either side of his hips. He can feel the heat of her body through the fabric of his trousers.

"Are you fond of that shirt?" she asks casually and he frowns, shaking his head.

_What on earth is she playing at?_

Her grin grows wider, more predatory, and his heartbeat picks up. "I was hoping you'd say that," she purrs, reaching into the basket and pulling back its covering. Inside he can see a bunch of grapes, a bowl of halved strawberries. A large block of chocolate. There are pieces of cheese and slices of Italian meats. He even spies a little pot of honey, as well as, well, other things. Things he doubts she bought in a butcher's shop. Things he thinks (hopes) she'll use on him.

With exaggerated slowness, she pulls out a strawberry and holds it to his lips.

Still unsure, he frowns at her; It takes him a moment to realise what she intends but once he does he opens his mouth, feels her little fingers press the cool fruit onto his tongue.

"Chew," she murmurs, and he does. "Swallow," she adds, and he does that too.

As a reward she reaches down and kisses him, her chest pressing to his, her hips canting downwards to press her warm mound against his cock.

She rocks her hips a little and he can feel himself beginning to harden.

"You see how that works?" she says quietly and he nods. "You do as you're told and you get a treat. You disobey and well… Then _I_ get a treat."

And she takes another strawberry out, holds it to his mouth. This time she he opens up he lets it sit on his lips though. Tilts his mouth up to hers in invitation, his stomach fluttering in anticipation when she smiles and leans down to him. Her mouth closes around her half of the strawberry and they both bite, their lips brushing against one another as they do so-

The sensation causes them both to moan. Loudly.

"Clever boy," she breathes and he beams. "Do you like this game?"

He nods. "Yes, Hooper, I like it very much." He glances at the basket. "Are we to eat everything in there like this?" and she nods. Her expression is bright. Aroused. Beautiful.

_He thinks he may have never seen a woman so lovely as she._

"I have to see you're fed, Holmes," she says with mock solicitousness. "Wouldn't do to have you faint from hunger when the real games begin, eh?"

He nods in similar, mock solicitousness. "No, that would never do," he says. He can hear the desire creeping into his voice, deepening it. "And I can't be disappointing you, now can I? Not so early in our acquaintance as this."

She lets out the most wicked laugh imaginable, and with that the games truly begin.

* * *

They get through the grapes thus, and some of the meats. She holds those in her fingers, forcing him to tilt his head back and open wide before she places the morsels into his mouth with deft, quick hands. As he chews she touches his skin, opining his shirt and flies, stroking her bare fingers over his flesh.

It feels divine.

Eventually though, she tells him that they must move- "I'll need more room than this, sweetheart,"- and so they stumble into his bedroom, the basket and wine bottle in Hooper's hands, Sherlock's fingers full of her belly and breasts as he presses into her body from behind. He nuzzles at her neck and she tilts her head back, giving him better access.

Once inside, she closes the door with a rather final-sounding click and takes in his bed, large and luxurious and provided with four long bedposts.

A memory flashes through his mind, that dream he'd had of her tying him to his bed and having her wicked way with him while he pleaded with her not to stop. Perhaps the proof of this is written on his face- or, perchance, the sight of such a bed just brings out the prurience in everyone- but the moment her eyes alight on the bedposts she looks at him. Points one imperious finger towards them.

"Lie down," she says. She reaches up to her own shirt, pulls off her tie and begins opening her cuffs. Folding her sleeves up over her forearms.

The sight makes his mouth water.

"What are you going to do to me?" he asks, wincing as his voice cracks slightly in anticipation.

She cocks an eyebrow at him. "What do you want me to do to you, darling?" she asks. Her voice drops, her eyes darkening. "You have to ask, or I won't do anything at all."

Holmes swallows. He hopes he can make himself say it. "Would you- That is, could you see your way to-?"

She walks sharply up to him and pushes him back onto the bed, none too gently. "You have a tongue in your head," she says sharply. "Speak the words or I'll put it to another, more pleasurable use."

And her hand strays down her belly towards her flies, leaving him in no doubt regarding what she's referring to. Though he wants to watch her- he loves to watch her- he heard the order in her voice, so-

"Please," he says, his voice low and deep and breathless. "Please, tie me to the bedposts and fuck me. Please, Hooper, please, I, I want it, I _need_ it-"

"Then you shall have it, sweetheart."

And she hushes him, bringing her mouth to his and kissing him passionately, her body pressing his down into the bed. His arms unrestrained, he kisses her fully, pulling her tightly against him until they're both panting, their tongues slipping and sliding together, their hips jerking in sharp, graceless rhythm as they wrestle restlessly against the sheets.

Hooper pulls away first, taking his left wrist in one hand and tying her cravat around it; She then pulls his arm up, tying the fabric to the left bedpost before pulling Holmes' own cravat loose and doing the same with his right hand.

Thus secured, she gives him a devilish grin and pulls open his shirt, tossing away his cuffs and collar. She moves down his body, removing his shoes and socks before pulling down his braces and unclasping them. Tossing them aside.

She leaves his trousers and smallclothes until last but she pulls them free too.

Sherlock shivers, left naked as the day he was born with only an opened shirt for decency, his wrists secured to his bed and as he thinks of it, thinks of how, how lewd and salacious and, and _fuckable_ he must look he feels his cock reach its greatest hardness, the bulbous red head straining up towards his belly.

His heart is thudding like a jackhammer in his chest.

With a small, feline smile, Hooper moves away from him, settling herself on the chair next to his writing desk. For a moment she simply inspects him, as one might a particularly interesting laboratory experiment, or a particularly arresting painting in a gallery. Holmes forces himself to raise his head and meet her gaze head-on. This must please her, for she smiles and licks her lips. Rises to her feet and strokes her fingers gently through his hair, tracing his nose and profile before sliding her fingers over his lips. His tongue darts out to wet them and she laughs but doesn't stop, continuing her perusal, her hands sliding over his chest. His belly.

She traces her way to the very tip of his cock and again he shivers.

She kisses the very tip, her tongue tracing the slit and this time he moans.

"There's little more beautiful than a man tied to a bed," she murmurs, leaning back and turning his wash-stand mirror so that he can see his reflection. "Don't you make a bonny picture," she say, "my filthy, gorgeous boy?"

He turns his gaze to the mirror and as he does she begins pulling off her clothes until finally she's standing naked, save for her bound breasts. She pulls the linens loose and then stalks over to the bed. Takes Holmes' ankles in her hands and sharply yanks his legs towards her before binding them to the bedposts.

He lies, spread-eagled and helpless before her and she climbs atop him, the basket of food just within reach.

As she does so she turns to look at their reflection in the mirror on his wash-stand, and when Holmes sees it he blushes scarlet at the sordid sight they make.

"I told you that you were bonny, love," she murmurs, running her tongue along the shell of his ear. His Adam's apple. One hand snakes down his body to take his cock in hand and as she gives it a few brisk, firm strokes he hisses in pleasure, spine arching, throat bared.

"That's… That's…" He can't breathe.

He can't even think straight.

"What is it?" And she reaches down, nips his lower lip sharply before sucking it into her mouth.

The flare of pain is bright, delicious, even as her fist keeps up its maddening, arousing motion.

"It's- It's-It's just so good-" She's moving now, swinging her leg over him. She grins the hair of her mound against his prick, grinning smugly when his breath stutters. Taking his cock in hand she guides him to that lovely, wet place between her legs, that source of so much pleasure. Her hips rock against his, her body taking him into her just a little and as she does he lets out a long, blissful sigh.

She smiles at it, lowering herself onto him in increments, her forehead laid on his bare chest once she's fully seated.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?" she whispers. "Your wrists, your ankles, is there any pain?"

He shakes his head, a sense of peace, of pleasure washing over him. The whirr and buzz of his brain is slowing, as it had when they'd been together before.

"It feels so good," he repeats breathlessly. "I wish we could go on forever…"

And he thrusts up into her, gasping. Something passes through her eyes for a moment- A sorrow. A knowingness. Holmes stares, transfixed and oddly humbled, to have noticed it.

And then, just as quickly it's gone and she's picking up her pace.

"We can't stay forever, love," she says, "but we can draw out the pleasure for as long as possible…" Her smile turns wicked. "I assure you, I have the skills for that…"

And she begins moving in earnest, her hips undulating. Rocking. She reaches up and squeezes her breasts between her own hands, tugging at the nipples. Sighing in delight. It feels (and looks) so good Holmes swears the pleasure might kill him.

_But if this is the way he's to die, he thinks, then he's happy to go._

He doesn't die though; the pleasure just continues growing. As she rides she slides her fingers into his mouth, has him suck them. She slides two slick digits down her belly as he thrusts up into her, pressing them tightly against that spot at the apex of her cunny, that spot which he'd realised was the centre of her pleasure before.

The other two she slides around his body, her thumb and forefinger finding that puckered opening they'd found the other day. Tracing wetly around his anus. Her delicate little finger slips against the ring of muscle once- twice- "Relax sweet boy and let me in," she whispers- and at her coaxing he lets himself go. Lets himself open. He feels the strange, new burn as her digit slides inside him. It feels… Odd. Different. Not quite painful and yet not quite a pleasure-

And then she twists that finger just _so_ and suddenly an entire universe of pleasure lights up behind his eyes.

Holmes lets out a gasp, his entire body twitching like a livewire. It feels as if every nerve in his being has suddenly been aroused. He loses all control, hips pumping, voice yelling and when he finally comes back to himself Hooper's lying on his chest, panting, her hair tangled about her face and her bones apparently melted to butter. She's pressing kisses to his chest and moaning.

"You're so fucking gorgeous when you do that," she mutters and then she kisses him until neither of them can breathe.


	10. Strong and Sweet, Through Cotton and Broadcloth

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to oOKatiekinsOo, MizJoely, ChiefDoctor, Icecat62, gabriella_t, Sherlockian_87, Raelynn and chasingbluefish. 

* * *

~ **STRONG AND SWEET, THROUGH COTTON AND BROADCLOTH ~**

* * *

 

They do not sleep afterwards, this time.

Perhaps it is the earliness of the hour, perhaps it is the aftermath of their mutual, antagonising days, but they do not.

Neither of them appears able to settle into rest.

Rather, they curl on their sides and look at one another. Speak. They whisper of the days they've had. Hooper's sore face, Anderson's punishment for his disobedience. The older cases Holmes was looking at today when he was in Scotland Yard.

They don't raise their voice above whispers, for all the know that they're alone; There's a curious, quiet sort of confidence between them which Holmes has only once before experience, with John. The thought, he understands, ought to bring alarm, but it does not: While he has always been aware- and tried to shield his friend from the effects- of others' assumptions about their relationship, those assumptions have never upset him-

After all, _he_ always knew what he felt for John, even if nobody else seemed willing to accept it.

And as Sherlock Holmes, other people's willingness to accept his decisions (or lack thereof) has never been something about which he allowed himself to fret.

_And yet…_

This intimacy with Hooper, its reminding him of Watson… He finds it disquieting- Or rather, he thinks perhaps he should do. It's not that he has never entertained the notion that his interests might lie with men- He went to university, and a public school before that; He has seen plenty of his fellows and where their interests lead them. And Hooper has, after all, come to him every time dressed in masculine garb. _He got to know her, thinking she was a man, for heaven's sake._ For all the beauty of her bare female form, and all the lust it rouses within him, he would have to be wilfully blind to think that her being dressed as a man does nothing to him, and has nothing to do with their attraction and his willingness to yield to it-

And yet… He doesn't believe that his interests lie in his own sex.

And he doesn't believe that his interest in her are down to her masquerading as a man.

In fact, he doesn't believe that his interests lie in either gender, now that he thinks about it, but rather (it would appear) in the person who inhabits that gender. _The body is mere housing, not lure or bait, and oh but that is an interesting notion…_

When he tells Hooper she smiles, nods. She presses a kiss to his bare chest, still slicked slightly in sweat, and sighs out that she thinks she knows what he means.

"It's never about the physical body with you, is it?" she muses.

He cocks an eyebrow. "How so?"

She shrugs, her eyes far away as if recalling another place and time entirely. Her fingers trace soothing, gentle patterns upon his breast. "I have seen you with men and women, Holmes," she's saying. "Some of them beautiful, some of them handsome. All of them different and quite a few of them interested in you."

He feels his cheeks heat, surprised. While he has occasionally noted a woman or man's flirtations, he has never really let himself think about their attraction towards _him_. He finds it easier to assume they are merely impressed by his intellect or fame. The notion that they might, well, lust after him bodily is something he finds slightly… disconcerting.

At this thought Hooper raises her head, looks at him. "What have I said that makes you uncomfortable?"

He shakes his head, not sure how to put it. Not wanting to admit to such vulnerability. And yet _… Whenever else will he have such an opportunity to ask?_ "Surely I'm not looked at with such lust regularly?" he says. "I- I know that women in particular seem to find me oddly attractive, but I can't believe that they, that they…"

"That they think about fucking you?" she asks wryly. He winces at her choice of terminology and her eyes light in mischief. "Or should I have used a more ladylike phrase?" she continues, moving so that she's straddling him again. She looks down at him with bright, laughing eyes. "Do you think they imagine tupping you? Being taken by you? Making love to you-?"

He frowns. "You're teasing me."

She nods. Presses a playful kiss to his nose before nudging it gently with her own. "Indeed I am," she says. "And you deserve to be teased, if you imagine the women of London so blind that they don't see how handsome you are."

He pouts. "But that's precisely the point." He looks away, trying to find the words, wishing he'd never started this conversation in the first place. "Surely I am not an… object of lust?" he says quietly.

Her laughter stills. "Would it bother you, sweetheart, if you were?"

He shrugs, still unsure what he wants to say. _This is not a conversation he would ever have imagined having with anyone, even John._ "I am not beautiful," he says after a moment. "I'm perhaps handsome, but only just. And I'm not… nice, or kind, or gentle, or charming, or good, or reliable, or anything else a woman finds attractive in a man." He snorts. "I'm not even anything a _man_ finds attractive in a man."

Again he shrugs. "I'm me, and that is more than enough- Isn't it?"

He meant that last to come out as a statement but it ended up sounding like a question. A question he never really lets himself ask, being far too happy with being Sherlock Holmes to ever really let himself think about who else he could be. How others might view him. For a moment Hooper's silent though and he wonders whether something he has said has upset her- _His capacity for opening his mouth and landing both feet inside is, after all legendary_ \- But then-

She takes his face in hers. Tilts it upwards until she's looking him in the eye.

Hers are filled with compassion, and disbelief, and a queer sort of righteous anger for which he can't conjure a source.

"Listen to me, William Sherlock Scott Holmes," she says tightly. "And listen well, because what I am about to tell you is the absolute and utter truth. You are a vain, self-obsessed, overly-indulged, utterly mad, completely brilliant and painfully wonderful human being."

He opens his mouth to correct her and she rushes on with nary a pause.

"You are clever, and fierce, and loyal, and utterly odd and unique. You are always interesting and sometimes infuriating and always, always beautiful in every way that matters.

And I will not have you speaking of yourself as if you are not."

She presses another kiss to his nose.

"So there."

He blinks at her, surprised. _He hadn't expected that_. "Thank you," he says, nonplussed. "But you really didn't have to say all that."

"Didn't I?" And she sighs, rakes a hand through her hair before belatedly realising that she's still wearing her wig. With a quick tug she pulls it loose and tosses it aside, to join her similarly dismissed-in-the-throes-of-passion moustache on the floor. "Have you always thought like that about yourself?" she asks shortly; this time his tone is measured.

"I've always known I was a freak-"

"That's what the boys in school called you-"

"That's what _everyone_ calls me-

"That's not what I've ever called you," she counters. "Or Watson, or Mrs. Watson, or Mrs. Hudson, or Inspector Lestrade."

He clears his throat. "Yes, well, they're my friends," he points out. "And we've already seen that you're, well, rather… fond of me-" He makes a show of frowning at her, trying to lighten the mood. "You _are_ rather fond of me, aren't you, Hooper?"

A small smile lights her face. "I am. I don't just tie up every handsome man I meet."

Looking at her through his lashes, he brings one of the hands at his cheeks to his mouth and kisses her knuckles.

"I am also, as you may have gathered, rather fond of you," he says and this time she laughs.

Something tight and uncomfortable inside him loosens. It makes what he wishes to ask easier, for-

"So why has this upset you so?" He keeps his voice quiet, mild, as he would if he were talking to a nervous client.

Now it's her turn to frown, her expression shuttering as if she means not to answer him.

Holmes tries not to let such a withdrawal hurt- though he must concede it does- but before he can decide how to move ahead she sighs again. Lays her forehead on his and closes her eyes.

Her arms tighten possessively about him.

"My husband, Tom," she says quietly. "He was like you-"

"A detective?" Holmes frowns, realising the silliness of that question. "No, you mean that he preferred- He preferred-"

"He liked a woman to take the lead," she supplies quietly. "What aroused him was a woman taking her pleasure of him and commanding he do the same."

Holmes presses a small kiss to her cheek. "So," he says. "Just like me," and she again nods.

"He spent much of his life thinking there was something wrong with him," she explains quietly. "He was ashamed of his desires for so long that we were married nearly a year before he finally admitted to me what he wanted in a wife."

She shakes her head at the memory, and Holmes tries not to let his gut tighten in anger at the thought of her with someone else.

_They both lived a life before each other, he knows this, and yet the jealousy is still there._

"By the time I got him to admit it," she's saying, "he was thinking of doing something drastic. He was so convinced I'd be disgusted that he didn't think he could bear to tell me what he wanted."

Holmes slides his hands up over her arms, trying to soothe her. Even with his jealousy, he doesn't like to see her troubled. "But he did?" he prompts.

"He did," she acknowledges. "And once he did- once we both realised how happy it made us- Well, then we had a very happy marriage. A very happy marriage indeed."

Sorrow chases across her face, her eyes seeing somewhere long ago.

"But he spent years tormenting himself with the thought that there was something wrong with him," she's saying, "and I don't want- Oh, I couldn't bear to have you think-"

She sighs again, frustrated this time, and looks up at him.

This time her eyes are in the present, no thoughts of the past that he can see.

"I don't want you to think ill of yourself, is all," she says eventually. "There's nothing wrong with you, and there's nothing wrong with me."

He nods, presses a kiss to her nose this time.

"I believe you are correct," he says. "But then I always believe that I'm in the right, Hooper."

Something flashes in her eyes, something gentle, and in a quiet voice she says, "You could, if you wished, call me Molly."

"Molly?" The word sounds odd on his tongue. Luscious. Exotic. A secret thing.

She looks at him and he looks at her, the tension of her admission hanging in the air, but then-

"Molly," he repeats. "Molly… Hooper?"

She shivers, to hear him say it. Nods.

"Molly Hooper," she murmurs. "And you are Sherlock Holmes." This time it's his turn to shiver. "Now come and let me take you, Sherlock Holmes, let me make you moan and sigh and come for me…"

And she kisses him as she says it, moving her body atop his until she's pressing down against his cock.

It doesn't take long until she has him panting and moaning, and he's done the same to her.

He presses inside her, her pulling them both onto their sides and then the world narrows to a palace of slow sighs and gentle touches. Of shallow, thrusting and bitten lips, and of voices (one slowly becoming familiar) breathing out familiar names.

When Holmes spills inside her she gasps, legs wrapping tightly around his waist and pulling him to her.

They kiss and kiss in the pale evening light and never think to pull away.

* * *

A/N Since a couple of people have asked about chapter titles, the one above is suggested by Whitman's "Body Electric."  "Sed Non Satiata," ("Never Satisfied,") and "Delicate Monsters," are both references to Baudalaire's "Flowers of Evil."  "The Chambers of the Heart," was suggested by the famous poem 221b by Vincent Starrett while "The Celibate's Progress," is a reference to Hogarth. The others I just made up, with the exception of "Puer Defututus," which you should definitely try to translate, heh heh heh... 

 


	11. And Each Paving Stone A Good Intention

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Raelynn, MizJoely, Sherlockian87, Icecat62, MerriWyllow, chasingbluefish, Emma_Lynch, lilsherlockian1975, tutu1b and ChiefDoctor. Enjoy... 

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~ **AND EACH PAVING STONE A GOOD INTENTION ~**

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It becomes obvious to Holmes in the days that follow that he and Hooper's tryst is to be an ongoing thing, rather than a fancy of a couple of days.

For they soon fall into a pattern: While they still argue in the Morgue, they spend almost every night at one of the others' rooms. _Their hunger for one another increases with each encounter they enact._ As they grow closer, the tone of their disagreements gradually mellows to become teasing and funny, rather than vicious; Hooper seems to accept that Sherlock's more spectacularly gauche tendencies are the result of his own innate lack of social skill rather than a concerted attempt to dismiss her intelligence or skills. And now that he knows her secret Sherlock begins to understand _why_ she might have found him so infuriating before; It even becomes a point of humour between them, the fact that when Sherlock disagreed with her it was always because she was being stupid and never because she was being female-

This last joke earns him a night on his knees between Hooper's legs, trying his damndest to earn her forgiveness for his words with lips and tongue and fingers.

He would complain at the injustice of it had he not been enjoying himself to thoroughly, the sight of his… his _lover_ with her head thrown back in ecstasy that he caused being enough to make him hard for days afterwards.

_In fact, it makes him hard for weeks._

And so he and Hooper settle into their new… arrangement, for want of a better term. They agree to continue seeing one another, though they both take it as a given that nobody- with the possible exception of Mrs. Hudson or the Watsons- can be allowed to discover what their relationship entails. And it is a relationship, even Sherlock can admit that; Aside from the regular bouts of debauchery they engage in together, they also behave in other ways which signify affection.

They speak to one another of worries and annoyances.

They take care of one another when on or the other (usually, admittedly, Sherlock) has gotten themselves hurt in the pursuit of a case.

They even go to one another for comfort, Hooper turning up on his doorstep late at night after having performed an autopsy on the body of a drowned child. Shivering and shaking, her eyes vacant while he brought her inside.

He'd had to run a hot bath and wash her- he'd eventually gotten into the tub with her- all the while waiting for her to speak of the matter. To explain to him what was wrong. When she had it had been a dull monotone, a slow recitation of the child's ante-mortem injuries and the great unlikelihood of their discovering which monster was responsible.

And then she'd burst into tears, in the bath, her arms locked around Sherlock while he quietly rocked her. He'd dried her and taken her to bed and in the quiet of his unlit room they'd lain together, her winding him in her arms and pulling him to her. Whispering in his ear that she needed him now, even as she opened her thighs and her arms to him, her face alight with emotion and need. Both their climaxes that night had been explosive, arms locked around one another, sweat slicking one another's bodies-

The next morning she'd explained, quietly, that the sight of the child had reminded her of her own lack of children.

She couldn't have them, she'd said. An accident when she was young, she said, one she didn't want to talk about now. The information wasn't news to Sherlock- her lack of care about French letters or other prophylactics had already suggested to him that she wasn't capable of having children- but to hear her say the words haltingly to him, to hear her pain in them, that was different. That was almost humbling.

So he'd kissed her and told her it was alright.

In fact he'd silently promised to himself that he'd make sure it was always alright for her.

Their relationship had shifted after that, became… gentler. Quieter. Though she still leads and he still follows, now there's a sense of companionship which Sherlock adores though he'd never say so aloud.

So when he gets given a case by Mycroft, one which Watson seems unwilling to become mixed up with (his second child's arrival, is, after all, fast approaching) it seems obvious to Sherlock whom he should take as aid and helpmeet.

He should take Hooper.

And as this case will involve travel to Paris under an assumed identity, he suggests that he perhaps take Molly, not Matthew Hooper, with him. He suggests that a man and a woman travelling from London to the City of Light will perhaps draw less attention than two men together might. He's looking for a target who preys on young couples, after all, and his likelihood of catching the blighter would be improved, were he to be disguised as the predator's preferred victim-

Hooper looks at him narrowly as he suggests it, tied to her bedposts as he is and exhausted, his body flooded with affection and satiation.

He can't quite place her expression.

"Are you growing tired of this?" she asks quietly after a moment. "Of my secret? There's- There's no shame in it if you are-"

He shakes his head. "I'm not," he says. "I promise you, Hooper, I'm not growing tired or bored of, of, well, us. I just…"

And he sighs, lets his head fall back against the pillow. Tries to organise his thoughts into something vaguely resembling actual sense.

After a moment she moves to his side. Gently unties his wrists and kisses him softly.

As she pulls away he exhales, lunging forward and pressing her down onto the bed until she's laid beneath him.

She stares up at him like he's the most interesting thing in the known world.

"I want to be able to kiss you," he says and it's not until the moment the words pop out that Sherlock realises the words are true.

Even his wanting to take Mycroft up on his Paris job is down to that.

"I want to be able to kiss you in front of people," he clarifies. "I want to be able to hold her hand and offer you my arm and spoil you and tell people you're with me…"

She frowns. "You want me to be a woman for you," she says quietly.

He looks down at her in confusion. "You _are_ a woman," he points out. "I have made a rather thorough anatomical study of the subject and I can confirm that you are, indeed, female…"

She smiles slightly, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

He presses his lips to her cheek, her nose.

He wants to drive this sudden, inexplicable sadness from her expression but he doesn't know how.

"And if I told you I couldn't ever come out of hiding?" she says softly after a moment. "If I told you I would have to be Matthew Hooper until the day I die, that I won't ever be a woman for anyone but you, what then?"

Sherlock stares at her, confused.

He doesn't rightly know what she's getting at.

"Then I would point out that you'd stay Matthew Hooper _here_ ," he says slowly, in that tone Watson has reliably informed him increases his chances of being punched. "In London, you would remain the man everybody knows. It's just in Paris that you'd have another identity, a temporary one. One which would permit us to behave with one another as two, well, two lovers ought."

He exhales again, tries to martial his arguments; He can tell he's confused her he just isn't sure why.

"I'm not- I'm not trying to get you to give up your job, Molly, or your life," he says slowly. "I'm just asking you to take a, a break from them for a little while- A holiday, if you will.

"A holiday from everything."

And he kisses her again. Shakes is head. He hasn't any better words for her than those, he just hopes they prove sufficient. She stares at him for a long while, the brown eyes deep and bottomless. Beautiful. There's a storm in them though and as always with her his gifts abandon him, making her impossible to read. Impossible to understand. But then-

"What is our story to be, love, on this sojourn?" she asks and he smiles.

This time she answers it, her own lips curving into something almost sweet. Something almost tremulous.

It makes Holmes' heart stutter in his chest, it's so lovely a sight.

"You are to be a London heiress, one of the dreaded nouveau riches," he says, moving to lie beside her. Pressing his forehead to hers, laying his hand on her hips and pulling her closer. He drops his voice to its deepest level, knowing how much she likes that and at recognising so obvious a ploy for her approval a warmer, more certain smile lights her face.

She starts pressing butterfly kisses to his cheeks and throat.

"And who are you to be?" she asks. "My virginal young groom, newly acquired from old money, hmm?"

She's moved now, started pressing kisses across his shoulders. His chest. Her tongue licks delicately around his nipple before her teeth move down and gently bite. It makes him moan.

"Or are you a servant?" she continues, starting to enjoy her game now. "A strapping young groomsman or footman, sent by my father to keep me out of trouble..?"

And as she speaks, she moves, pressing kisses all over his body. Her tongue slipping and sliding against his chest. The shells of his ears. The ticklish skin behind his knees. She gestures and he gets on all fours, her mouth sliding over his spine, his buttocks.

She produces a bottle of oil from her bedside cabinet and opens it, pours a small amount of it into her palms.

She rubs them together, warming them, and then her hands are all over him. Stroking. Caressing. Massaging. The slick, warm oil coats his cock and balls when she caresses them, his skin glistening for her in the warm lamplight. They don't decide on a cover story then, are soon far too distracted to even think about one…

A week later they're in Paris, pretending to be a runaway heiress and her penniless, scandalous musician of a husband.

And it is while they are engaging in this particular piece of play-acting that Molly Hooper's past comes back to haunt her with a worryingly vicious force…


	12. Where Love Builds His Mansion

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. **Please be aware that the following is absolutely filthy, completely, irredeemably raunchy smut so if you don't like that sort of thing you can skip to the next chapter**. If you do, on the other hand, like it then enjoy. And as always thanks for their reviews go to Roz1013, sarahdvs, Sherlockian_87, devilgrrl, Icecat62, chasingbluefish, lilsherlockian1975, JL, gabriella_t, magetha and MizJoely. Enjoy!

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~ **WHERE LOVE BUILDS HIS MANSION ~**

* * *

It all starts off so simply, so well, that not even the Great Detective could have imagined how bad things would turn. How much trouble he and Molly would find.

But then, had they known, would they have gone at all?

* * *

 A week after their conversation Holmes and Hooper arrive in Paris, laden down with both suitcases and cover stories. Their identities have been set up by Mycroft and his people, the local gendarmerie informed-

_All they have to do now is put on a convincing show._

Holmes has no doubt that they're capable of it: they are both, after all, highly adept at pretending to be something they're not. Hooper's going by the name of Margaret Ashford, only daughter of a wealthy tinned goods magnate who has just eloped to France with her ne'er-do-well rake of a husband, one Christopher Vernet.

They've apparently scandalised polite London society and now they're out to paint the City of Light red too.

In keeping with the theme of their disguise, both Holmes and Hooper make an absolute spectacle of themselves at every opportunity, kissing and touching and in general behaving like they can't keep their hands off one another. It takes them a monumental thirty minutes to get to their second floor room in the Hotel Meurice on Rue de Rivoli, for example, and by the time they have the entire establishment knows their names. It makes sense, of course, to be obvious since the other three couples whose disappearances Mycroft wants investigated were also notably (and publicly) besotted with one another-

But it's more than that, Holmes knows.

_There's more to this than merely being thorough in a cover story._

For, were he and Hooper merely playing a part their charade would end the moment they closed the door to their luxuriously gaudy suite; They would settle down and plot their next move, intent on bringing those who have caused these disappearances to justice.

Instead, Molly proceeds to open her fake trousseau and take out some objects which she assures Sherlock are absolutely necessary for a young lady's honeymoon. They include a paddle. A flail. A length of soft, silken rope and a small jar of oil, rather similar to that which she used the last time she gave him a massage.

_Holmes doubts, however, that it's to be used for a massage now._

For nestled in amongst her jewels and clothes, amongst her sheer stockings and silk gloves and modest, virginal night-rails there sits a long, perfectly shaped, perfectly smooth leather-covered model of a phallus. A cock. It has been mounted on a sturdy leather harness, perfect for someone of Hooper's height and slender build to wear.

The sight of it makes Holmes stop. Stare.

He flushes scarlet, bites his lip in anticipation.

His throat goes dry, even as his breathing turns shallow.

For he knows what she intends to do with _that_ ; She'd teased him about it (in London), had told him that were he to be her bridegroom then she'd put him on his knees and fuck him from behind like the filthy, gorgeous, perfect little whore that she knows he is. She'd make him mewl and beg and plead for her and when she was done with him he'd be so thoroughly, utterly debauched that he'd kiss her feet- and any other part of her anatomy she directed him to- in gratitude.

At the time Holmes had been excited by the idea but hadn't believed that she was serious.

Now, looking at her stalking towards him as she sheds clothes and inhibitions, watching as she fits the phallus and harness over her knicker-clad, swaying hips and pristine white bridal corset, all he can do is stare. Stare and salivate.

_He's not sure he's ever been so aroused before._

"Is the door locked?" he stammers, knowing well what she intends to do to him.

Hooper smiles wickedly, shaking her head.

"Oh no, darling boy," she purrs, sashaying over to him. Her eyes are wicked. "And I'll not lock it tonight, on that you may depend."

She slides one small, gloved hand along his chest and Sherlock gulps, feeling his heart begin to thud, nipples tightening even as his cock strains to hardness at the thought of what he's about to do. At the thought of what he's about to have done to him.

"But what if someone walks in?" he asks. He refuses to think about the tremor in his voice. "What if we make noise and the staff come in, the staff try to check on us..?"

Hooper's laughter is throaty and dark.

"Why then they'll see my bridegroom being fucked by his delicate, ladylike little wife," she says, her hands going to his clothes. Beginning to remove them. Her fingers are always so much more deft with his buttons than his are. They bare his skin with such loving, efficient care. "And then they'll see how much he likes it-"

"They will?" She nods and Holmes can already feel his pulse racing, the arousal of what's about to happen setting his every nerve on edge.

"So I'll have to be quiet?" he ask and again she nods. Kisses him.

She's gotten most of his clothes off by now, has started licking and sucking at his throat. His chest. His earlobes. It feels so good than when she pulls off his final piece of clothing, his smalls, he can't help but give a small, wanton shiver.

"On the bed," she says and he should be embarrassed how eager he is to comply, to do her bidding, but he isn't.

Holmes has long ago given up feeling shame for the delight he takes in what she does to him.

"Spread your knees," she directs as soon as he's in place, stepping to the side and pulling off her gloves. Pouring some of the oil he noted earlier onto her hands with another, more incendiary smile. The smell of it fills the room, olive oil, he thinks, possibly with… peppermint? No, cedar. And something else, something his lust-addled brain is too befuddled to categorise. Something that makes his cock ache and his heart clench, that makes his every muscle shudder with anticipation.

It's the scent of her- of them together, he belatedly realises, and for Holmes at least there's no smell more welcome than that.

So he holds still for her, tries his best to make himself ready. As he watches she slathers the cock in oil, making it glisten. The leather creaks as she moves and despite himself Holmes drops his head. Huffs out a hungry little breath in anticipation even as his own cock begins to ache.

His shoulders slump, eyes fluttering closed, mind already drifting towards that peaceful, blissful place that only she sends him. He's tipped his arse upwards, eager and ready for her, and as he feels her kneel on the bed she sets to stroking her oil-covered hands over his shoulders. His buttocks. His spine.

She saves his cock and bollocks for last, but then she always does.

She whispers, over and over, as she touches him just how good he feels. How good he's being for her.

"Perfect," she murmurs, "you're always so perfect for me…My sweet, perfect, darling, filthy boy…"

And then she leans down and takes his cock in one hand, her other staying at the phallus' harness to hold it steady. Time seems to slow, then to stop; She takes her time, stroking him all over, lathering his skin in the oily concoction. Taking special care to make sure the tight, hungry hole of his anus is wet and ready before she slips her wicked little finger in.

At the sensation of being entered Holmes whines- he always whines when she does this- and he feels her smile against his back. Hears the sweet puff of laughter she gives as she starts working him, first with one finger, then another. _She strokes and coaxes that spot he loves so much, that spot that makes him see stars._ By the time she's pressing three fingers inside him he's moaning like a thrupenny whore and with a soft query regarding his readiness she moves into place behind him. Takes her phallus in hand.

Holmes shivers as he feels it sliding lewdly against his thighs and arse, her hands gentle and caring as she whispers in his ear that he must tell her if he's ready.

He can't speak- his tongue is thick and heavy, too tied with pleasure for affirmation- but he nods his head. Moans out a single, guttural, "please," even as he feels her press the bulbous head of the cock just breach him. Feels her grunt softly at the new, added pressure even as her right hand return to his prick and balls.

She keeps her hand left against his hip and pushes, holding him steady.

The head of the phallus slips inside him another notch.

He hisses in pleasure and bites his lip, whines softly that he wants more. That he needs it. Deserves it. Will do anything for it.

"Patience," she murmurs, "patience… I don't want to hurt you, darling…"

Nevertheless he feels her push deeper inside him, feels the length of the phallus filling him up. Making him shiver. She thrusts gently and he moans. Presses back against her. It's all he can do to hold still, let her maintain her control of him.

It's all he can do, really, to not yell out at the pleasure she's inflicting on him.

But he trusts her, after all. He's hers. He can wait to see what she's going to do to him. _And even if he didn't, this feels too bloody good to want to stop_. So he holds himself together, presses his face into his pillow rather than make a noise and bring anyone to disturb them. When the pleasure gets too great he opens his mouth and bites the pillow's cotton, the thought of his screams being audible outside the only thing that can keep him in some measure of control.

But even that proves fleeting. Even that proves tenuous. For with one sure, slick, steady hand she begins pumping his prick even as he feels her push, the phallus moving deeper inside him. She pulls back almost all the way out before pressing in again, her hand moving deliciously against his prick the entire time. She does it once, twice, and he moans. She picks up her speed and he can't help it- He loses control of himself.

His hips begin to pump, hers moving in rapid time with them.

Hers driving him ever closer to his breaking point.

The sound of creaking leather and slapping flesh and sweet, sharp, protecting bedsprings fills the suite until it's louder than a symphony. More melodic than any nocturne.

His body is an instrument and she's playing it as surely as he plays his violin.

For a moment as he thinks that everything hangs in the balance. For a moment as he thinks that he stands on the cusp, waiting, waiting, for the freefall into bliss- into self-loss- to begin. And then there's a hiss of pleasure, a snarl of it. Climax snaps through him, his head thrown back, his body losing any control he might have of it. His voice yelling hoarsely that yes, yes, this is what he wants, this is what he's always wanted- This is what he needs to much-

When he comes back to himself she's stroking his back and shoulders lovingly. Carefully. With swift, deft fingers she removs the phallus from within him.

He turns to her, awash in emotion and pleasure and sheer, blissful, ecstatic gratitude and as he kisses her he murmurs thank you. "Thank you, Molly," he whispers.

It's only later he realises his eyes are wet with something suspiciously like tears as he says this.

Her eyes are suspiciously wet too but she doesn't say anything. Just holds him more closely to her.

* * *

 What neither of them know is that their tryst was not nearly so private as they might have assumed it was, and that at that very moment word is being sent to someone who can turn their whole lives upside down…

* * *

A/N The title of the chapter, for those who are curious, comes from Yeats' "Crazy Jane and The Bishop."

 


	13. The Past's Prologue

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to MizJoely, devilgrrl, chasingbluefish, Uisce252, JL, Sherlockian_87, sourpatch26 and tutu1b, enjoy!

* * *

**~ THE PAST'S PROLOGUE ~**

* * *

 

She finds the note the next morning, whilst he's shaving.

Someone must have slipped into their suite and left it on their bedside dresser, he muses as he scrapes the last of the lather off his face- Most likely one of the hotel's staff.

Holmes watches in his shaving mirror as Molly picks it up, frowning. She turns it over, clearly curious about what it could be, and with swift fingers she pries the envelope open, breaking what appears to be a heavy, waxen seal. She pulls out a single, thick piece of paper on which a small, hand-written missive appears to be written, though it's too far away for him to make out much of its contents-

He doesn't need to though; the moment she starts reading, Molly's face blanches. Goes ashen.

She sits down on their bed with a heavy thud, her hand going to her mouth in horror.

It's the most feminine, upset thing he's ever seen her do and instantly he's at her side, asking her what's wrong. "Good God, Molly, what's the matter?"

When she looks up at him, there are tears in her eyes.

Her breathing's turning frantic.

"You have to leave," she mutters hoarsely. She reaches out to him, hands fluttering about him as if trying to, to ward off some unseen threat. "You have to go, love, you can't stay here…"

"The devil I can't."

The words come out more loudly than he intended, but he can't help it. He's never seen her like this, not in all the time he's known her. She's always been calm, together Hooper and now she's, now she's…

_He's not sure what this is._

She looks at him sharply but before she can speak he holds his hand out, demanding the letter. Since it is clearly the source of her upset then he should at least get a chance to see its contents. With a glower which would frighten a lesser man she places it in his hands, shaking her head as she does so and rising to her feet.

She starts pacing the room, hands wringing together as he reads.

 _My Dearest Molly,_ the letter begins,

_So wonderful to see you again, my darling- And up to your old tricks too!_

_Why, this one looks even more delicious than poor, sweet Tom._

_As you've doubtless guessed by now, I know you're here under an assumed name, just as I know what you've been doing to that poor, besotted little slave of yours. I even have the evidence to prove it (visual, this time, rather than written, but that's even better, no?)_

_So if you want to keep your little pet out of trouble, you'll come to see me at the Hotel Marisol on Rue de Caire. No tricks this time, and no disappearing- Now that I know you're there to find, I will find you, of that you may have no doubt._

_Don't run little rabbit, Seb's got his rifle ready._

_I shall expect you promptly at half past one this afternoon._

_S_

For a split second Holmes stares at the letter in his hand, the facts slotting themselves together inside his head. Someone here referring to Hooper by her given name, someone who knows enough to mention the name of her former husband too. Someone who is clearly threatening her, and, perhaps more tellingly, who knows her well enough to understand that threatening another will prove more usefully coercive than impinging on her safety. Intriguing. When he looks up Hooper's rummaging through his clothes, trying to find something which will fit her by the looks of things-

"Molly."

He stands. Puts the letter aside. He moves to her side, his hands gripping her elbows to slow her desperate movements.

She blinks up at him with frightened, dark eyes and just like that he feels a wave of fury unlike anything he's encountered since Moriarty's demise threaten to engulf him.

It is only with great difficulty that he prevents himself from tightening his grip on her.

"I can't," she mutters. "I can't let him hurt you, Sherlock. I won't-"

"I'm not Tom."

Again she blinks, surprised, perhaps, at his putting things together though she shouldn't be. He is, after all, the Great Detective, for all that his gifts often fail him where she is concerned.

"Tell me," he says, gesturing to their bed and sitting on it.

He pulls her into his lap and wraps his arms tightly about her waist.

She goes stiff, still, and that small act of obedience discomfits him deeply; Hooper never does as he tells her. She never freezes up, that is simply not how their relationship works. _And yet…_

"If Seb says he has proof," she says, her voice low and worried, "then you may depend he has it."

Sherlock nods. That is to be expected: Molly would not be this rattled by an idle threat.

"And he has threatened you before?" he prompts. "This Seb person?" He gestures to the letter. "He mentions a Thomas- that was your husband's name, no?"

She nods. Something flits across her face, a strange, harrowing sort of sorrow. It pains Holmes to see it.

When she speaks her voice is flat. Dead.

"Tom was my husband," she says softly. "He… He met Sebastian Milverton when he was stationed in India, in the summer of 1888." She smiles wanly at the memory. "I wasn't permitted to go- I was too frail and ladylike for the heat, apparently."

That Holmes seriously doubts. Nevertheless, he tightens his grip on her. "And..?" he prompts again.

She sighs. Shakes her head. She twists in his embrace, moving so that they're face to face. She lays her forehead on his, her arms tightening about his waist. "And Sebastian followed Tom back to England when his tour was finished," she says. "He set up house and shop beside us while he was getting his bearings after leaving the army- At least that's what he told us."

"But that's not what he was doing, was it?" Holmes asks.

Again, anger and sorrow chase one another across her face.

"No," Hooper says quietly. "No, it was not."

And she speaks haltingly of a glorious summer. Of a new friend sharing she and Thomas' lives. She tells him of confidences shared, of her husband's happiness at finally seeming to find all he wanted in life. He and Milverton were going to invest in a new venture, a clinic for those men who left Her Majesty's service with injuries which they could not afford to treat. Thomas, a doctor, would handle the medical side of business while Milverton was in charge of finding investors for the venture, something at which he had proved singularly brilliant.

The money had rolled in. And in. And in.

All had been going well, she says, until one evening when she came home to find Thomas desperately upset. He'd been to see his solicitor and discovered financial irregularities with his and Seb's venture. Money was missing, money which the solicitor claimed had been requested by Thomas and had thus been released. Tom, however, had made no such requests. When her husband confronted the only person who could have removed the funds besides himself, Milverton had turned vicious. Started making threats. He had leverage against Tom, he said. Had something which could ensure the young doctor would do whatever he was told.

"And then he took out my letters," Molly says softly. "The letters I'd written Tom while he was away in India."

Holmes frowns. "What could be in a wife's letters to her husband that might prove incrimi- Ah."

He looks down at her, sees the guilt in her eyes, and he has his answer.

"You wrote to him of the marital bed," he says quietly.

The look she shoots him sears his heart.

"I wrote to him of what I wished to do to him," she agrees. "I even wrote of the things which we had already done. Sebastian stole the letters when he needed to learn how to forge Tom's handwriting and he must have come across the more personal ones because he, he-"

She shakes her head, tears glistening in her eyes and again, Holmes feels that rush of rage move through him. He can't help himself: He presses a kiss to her forehead, soothing her as best he can.

"He threatened to make them public, should Tom not play along," he finishes for her. She nods. "He used Tom's preferences as a way to force him into defrauding their venture."

She nods again.

"When the thefts eventually became public knowledge Tom took his life rather than face the shame of being known as a criminal," she says sourly. "Seb made it look as though he were the innocent party; he even offered to take care of me since I couldn't possibly have known what my husband was capable of, frail little thing that I am."

Her voice turns to iron as she speaks.

"Once the furore died down Seb summoned me, told me that he wanted a more permanent arrangement with me." _Now_ Holmes sees the steel in her, _now_ she becomes his Hooper again.

"He said that at first he had wanted me as his mistress but that now he had a much better scheme in mind." She takes a deep breath.

"And then he demanded I get on my knees and act to him as Tom had acted to me. He demanded I behave as if, as if-"

Again she takes a deep breath. She can't seem to make herself say the words.

The silence stretches out as Sherlock imagines how alone, how desperate she must have felt.

"The things I shared with Tom were my choice and my business," she says quietly after a moment. "They were things shared out of love, not constraint, and certainly not abuse." She looks up at Sherlock with those wise, dark eyes. "It's one thing to behave in such a way with someone you care about, another altogether to be forced into it with someone you loath.

"I would not behave in such a way with my husband's killer."

Sherlock nods in understanding.

"No," he murmurs. "No, I can't imagine that you would."

But Molly lets out a sharp, hopeless laugh. Again Sherlock sees tears glistening in her eyes. "When I told Sebastian as much he sneered and said that one way or another I would do as he bid me. He was executor of the clinic's funds now Tom was gone and everything I owned, including my dowry, had been signed into its assets: If I disobeyed I would starve."

Sherlock presses another kiss to her forehead. "But you disobeyed, didn't you?"

For the first time in her story Molly smiles at him. It's hard, almost feral, and to Holmes' mind, absolutely gorgeous.

"You're bloody right I did," she says. "I wasn't letting that bastard beat me twice. I knew I had only a little time- Seb wanted to marry me, the better to tie me to him. But nobody would wed us while I was still in mourning for Tom- Such things simply aren't done."

Sherlock can see. "So you had at least your half-mourning period to plan your escape," he says.

She nods. Now the spark comes back into her eyes and oh, but he is glad.

"I started money aside right away," she says. "I even learned how to forge Seb's signature, as he had learned to forge Tom's. I entered into correspondence with Tom's solicitors, not Seb's, and through them managed to get some of my property back, as well as some of Tom's inheritance. Not a lot, but enough to make an escape an build a life somewhere else.

"And then, then…"

"Then you became Matthew Hooper," Holmes finishes.

Again she nods.

"You always wanted to be a doctor?" and at this she smiles.

"I acted as Tom's assistant in his surgery," she says. "I had enough expertise to get into medical school, and I assumed that Seb would never think to look for me whilst I was living as a man."

Holmes must admit, as plans go it is both audacious and clever- His favourite sort.

He also can't help but be impressed by the lengths this woman was willing to go to in order to remain independent and free.

"So you snuck away?" he asks and she grins brightly.

Again that spark returns to her eyes.

"I went riding one day along the beach near our home; I sent the horse back alone and left my sopping wet clothes lying in the sand. A finding of death by suicide was recorded by the inquest, and nobody noticed a small, dark haired stranger leaving the beach in trousers and overcoat…"

"So you did beat him," Sherlock says and she nods, clearly pleased with herself.

The light in her eyes dies suddenly however.

"But now he's found me," she says, "and if he's found me then you're in an awful lot of danger…"

Sherlock shakes his head. Presses a kiss to her lips. He finds himself oddly touched, that she should be so worried for his safety but he can't let this go on.

"We're both in danger," he says stoutly, "And that being the case, I suggest we present this Milverton a united front-

By being together when we visit the Hotel Marisol this afternoon."


	14. Eve's Apple

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to MizJoely, oOkatiekinsOo, Roz1013, gabriella_t, lilsherlockian1975, Mistykins06, renniejoy, chasingbluefish, Sherlockian_87, tut1b and rockcandybar. Enjoy!

* * *

~ **EVE'S APPLE ~**

* * *

When Holmes asks their maid about directions to the Hotel Marisol, she giggles.

Her face reddens and she tells him that he will have to ask the concierge- She'll send him up right away.

The concierge doesn't arrive; rather there's a knock on the suite's door and when Molly opens it she finds a box outside in the hall. She takes the package inside and opens it, shows Holmes the contents: Two silk half masks, one red, one white, sit in a bed of crepe paper. There's also a black leather dog collar with lead and a pair of leather wrist cuffs.

A small white card sits at the bottom of the box, the words _Je suis où vous me menez_ written on it in raised silver script, with an address on the Rue de Caire.

As they're reading this there's another knock on the door and a voice informs them in quick-fire French that their taxi is waiting outside.

Both Holmes and Hooper are aware that they didn't order a taxi.

With a wary look at one another, they shrug on their coats and Holmes stashes the masks and lead inside his greatcoat's inner pocket. He and Molly hurry down to the front of the building, holding hands. Pretending not to notice the knowing stares the staff and other guests are shooting them.

"They think we're just another foolish young couple," he hears Molly murmur, sotto voce, in his ear, though whether she's trying to reassure him or herself is anyone's guess.

"Who gives a monkey's what they think?" he answers her, making sure his voice is loud enough to carry clearly. Without any warning, he pulls Molly to him and kisses her passionately- nay, indecently- on the steps of the hotel.

When they pull apart they're both breathless.

"Whatever happens today," he murmurs, "we will face it, and we will beat it. Is that clear, Dr. Hooper?"

For the first time since that dratted letter from Milverton arrived, he sees his Molly smile.

"Perfectly clear, Mr. Holmes," she answers softly. "Now get in the bloody cab."

And she gives his backside a playful swat, causing the silver-haired old letch staring at them from the concierge's desk to damn near swallow his tongue. Holmes' smile turns wolfish.

"Always happy to obey a lady," he murmurs, tipping his hat to her before climbing into the cab and extending his hand out to help her in.

* * *

The cabby barks at them in rough French when they reach the Hotel Marisol, ordering them out of his carriage.

As Molly alights Sherlock pulls out his wallet to pay them man but as soon as her feet hit the pavement the cab pulls off without a word.

The suddenness of this departure is disconcerting but Holmes chooses not to swell on it; Rather, he turns his attention to their destination. The building in front of him is dourly opulent, built out of heavy grey granite and taking up an entire corner of Rue de Caire. All its windows are darkened and there's a large, closed front door which looks like it has seen recent use.

There's nobody on the street and Molly looks like she can't decide whether or not this is a good thing.

Arm in arm, he and Hooper walk up the front steps, Sherlock taking out his walking stick and rapping sharply on the wooden door. He hears the sound of steady, heavy footsteps behind it and then the door is opened by a burly, grey-haired man in footman's apparel.

"Password?" he asks. In English.

 _Interesting that he knew to do so_ , Sherlock thinks.

"Je suis où vous me menez," Molly says and the doorman shoots her a wry grin, apparently pleased she guessed.

"Come in," he says, opening the door wider. Both Holmes and Hooper walk inside, still arm in arm. The Hotel's interior is as dreary as its façade, the marbled hallways almost indistinguishable in the gloom caused by the covered windows. There are mirrors and sconces for candles and all along the walls but only a single gas lamp is lit.

Grotesque shadows flit and dance across the walls.

"Hospitality is down there," the doorman says, nodding towards a closed oak door to his left. "You can change into whatever your fancy is and then the Master will be with your to show you the building. Play nice with the others, no fighting, no poaching and we'll all get along… What is the English phrase? Swimmingly?"

He smiles at them, but it doesn't touch his eyes.

"Yes, swimmingly, that is the word."

Molly and Sherlock exchange looks at the notion of "others," being involved, let alone "poaching," being banned, but their guide has already moved on, pointing to a massive marble staircase which leads to the building's upper levels.

He has the slightly bored tone of one who has said all this many times before.

"Formal festivities are located upstairs," he's saying. "Nobody is permitted to enter without a mask, so don't make me have to remind you-"

And as if to illustrate his point a giggle interrupts above, a pair of silk stockings fluttering down to land at his feet before he can finish. They are followed by a corset. Then a shift. Then a pair of bloomers. Then a pair of satin, high-heeled slippers which look like they cost more than a working man might wake in a week. Holmes looks up to see a young woman, completely naked now except for a collar, leash and a white silk mask like the one currently in his pocket, leaning coquettishly over the stairs above them and waving.

She even blows him a kiss.

There's a grunt of disapproval and then she laughs as someone- Holmes can't see his face- grabs her by her heavily-coiffed hair and pulls her away, admonishing her loudly for wickedness in rough, working-class French.

She's giggling all the while, playfully struggling, and suddenly, with alarming certainty, Sherlock knows precisely what sort of building this is and why they have been brought here-

One look at Molly tells him that she too knows.

They don't have time to discuss their realisation though, for the doorman sighs though, unaware of their alarm, and picks up the under-things. Gestures to them.

"We don't keep them, so you know," he says to Molly. "You throw away anything belonging to your pet there and it's gone for good, is that completely understood?"

Molly nods, reaching out her arm entreatingly to Sherlock. He takes it, aware of how stiff she's become though she's trying to hide it, and allows her to tow him towards the door which the doorman had said was for changing. _If they want to meet Milverton- The Master- apparently they'll have to wait in there._ As they walk he hears her breathing quicken, her arm stiff with worry and though he wants to calm her, he doubts drawing attention to her worry is wise in front of their companion-

They open the door to "hospitality," and step inside and as they do an arm reaches out from behind them and presses a gun against Sherlock's temple.

* * *

A/N As far as I know, Je suis où vous me menezmeans "I follow where you lead me." 


	15. The Wickedest Man In France

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Apologies for the delay, RL is a little hectic right now. But I thought I'd come play in Victorian Paris so here we are... Thanks for their reviews go to Sundance201Sherlockian_87, lylly, devilgrrl, MizJoely, chasingbluefish, SempreConAmore, sherlollydolly and Mistykins06. Enjoy!

* * *

~ **THE WICKEDEST MAN IN FRANCE ~**

* * *

 

For a split second Molly freezes, fear flashing through her eyes as she takes in his condition.

Her face drains of colour and her hands curl into fists at her hips.

And then, without another moment's hesitation, she reaches out and hefts the nearest object which comes to hand- a lamp- and tosses it viciously at the head of whoever's holding the gun on Sherlock-

It hits its mark- _of course it does_ \- and Holmes' assailant is forced to duck, their grip on the detective faltering.

Sherlock uses this momentary distraction to turn around and engage in a rather nasty bit of fisticuffs.

For though he is familiar with fighting fair and the Marquis of Queensbury's rules of pugilism, he finds himself unwilling to be civil. This miscreant has threatened him and frightened Molly and for that he must pay. So he brings his fist down sharply on the blighter's jaw, knocking his pistol away and sending him lurching drunkenly floor-ward-

He doesn't even have to prompt her, Molly reaches for the weapon and trains it on their attacker as soon as it's within her reach.

The other man glowers up at Sherlock, rubbing his jaw. "Dégénéré," he snaps at Sherlock, who smiles at him with mock sweetness.

"Merci," Holmes answers with a polite inclination of his head.

The man attempts to get to his feet but Molly advances on him, the pistol trained with practiced ease and steadied at his face.

To Holmes' relief she's wise enough to stay out of her opponent's reach.

"Is this enough, Seb?" she snaps, the words directed not to her floor-bound attacker but to a corner of the room which is draped in shadow.

Holmes hears a wry laugh. Blinks as he realises there is someone else in here, someone whom he had not noticed before.

_Presumably, it is the miscreant they're here to see, the odious Mr. Sebastian Milverton._

"More than enough, my dear," he hears Milverton say, light, elegant footsteps sounding behind him. He turns, keeping the man on the floor in view out of the corner of his eye and takes in the creature before him: He is tanned. Well-built. Handsome. He holds himself with the sort of languid insouciance so habitual to the English upper classes. _In fact, he rather reminds Sherlock of those boys who used to tease and torment him at school._ He has a thatch of golden-blond hair and the brightest, most stunningly white ivory teeth the detective has ever seen, his bright blue eyes taking in Molly's form greedily-

When he notices Holmes staring, he makes to feint playfully at him, trying to get him to back away. Trying to scare him, probably.

Sherlock does the only thing such behaviour warrants: he darts a sharp, rabbit blow right at his nose.

The jab knocks the wind right out of the bastard.

Milverton staggers back slightly, blinking. Surprised, perhaps, by either the strength of the blow or by its quickness.

His impeccable white dress shirt is now speckled with scarlet drops of blood and the sight makes Sherlock smile.

"That's quite a punch you throw," Milverton drawls, "for a man who enjoys taking a beating the way you do, Mr. Vernet."

 _Ah,_ Holmes thinks: _So he doesn't know who I am._

_That will make things much easier._

Molly makes to answer Milverton but Sherlock shakes his head to her. Quiets her. Though she doesn't look pleased about it she does as he asks. Holmes reaches out and takes her hand in his, twining their fingers together. He pulls her to his side, wraps one arm around her.

Milverton's eyes narrow at the sight of it, the expression on his face turning hungry. Sharp.

If Holmes were to describe his expression, he'd say he looked… jealous.

 _Ah, so it is as he suspected,_ he thinks. _Milverton's fixation on Molly has not yet abated._

 _That too will makes things easier_.

"You're not nearly pretty enough to meet my standards in an assailant, Mr. Milverton," the detective says coolly, filing this particular observation away for later. "At least, not when one is making comparisons with this goddess here."

And he reaches down. Presses another small kiss to Molly, her lips this time.

He doesn't want to do so in front of Milverton, dislikes the very notion of it actually, but he has a theory and he wants to test it.

This is the quickest way to do that.

And his theory is proved correct when, at the sight of their kiss, Milverton snarls, his handsome features turning sharp. Feral. He lunges forward and takes Molly's arm, yanking her away from Sherlock and throwing her bodily from him, causing her to stumble to the floor with a painful-sounding thump.

With a hiss he rounds on the young woman, thundering towards her, fists raised, even as she scrambles backwards, trying to get to her feet, looking fiercely (vainly) around for some weapon with which to defend herself-

Milverton raises his hand, about to strike Molly, and Sherlock grabs his wrist. Twists it easily so that now it's pinned behind his back.

With a huff he shoves Milverton forward, slamming him bodily into the room's door-frame, as far as he can get him away from Molly-

"You will not do that again," he hisses in the other man's ear.

The voice he uses has made greater men than this one quail.

Milverton huffs out a vicious-sounding, gleeful laugh though. Struggles against Sherlock's grip though he must know he has little chance of getting free.

"Forgive me if I don't take your threats seriously, Mr. Vernet," he says. "What with your predilection for playing the whore and all." His laugh turns dark. "Though I must admit, even I was shocked by the pictures we took of you…"

"So there are photos," Molly says, getting to her feet.

Milverton's aide makes to move towards her and she rams her foot into his crotch without hesitation, effectively incapacitating him.

He lets out a string of impressively eloquent French swear-words as he curls in on himself and Molly shoots him a dark smile.

Milverton chuckles. "There are," he says. "And they're far more titillating than those foolish letters of poor, pathetic Thomas'."

Though his face is pressed to the door-jam the leer in his voice is impossible to miss.

"After all, there's hearing something described and then seeing it, isn't there?" he says gloatingly. "They're such remarkably different experiences, especially for the more prurient amongst our class."

He snickers, tries to turn his head to look at Sherlock. "Does she make you swallow her down, son?" he asks, his tone trying for conversational. "Does she loan you out for her pleasure or merely keep you sucking on her cunt- Which is it, eh?"

His smile widens and Molly rolls her eyes at so obvious an attempt at provocation.

"And which do you think would be most humiliating for your respective families?" Milverton asks. "Which do you think they'd want to read about in the papers least, hmm?"

This time Sherlock rolls his eyes. Sighs.

_So banal a motive is actually rather annoying._

"So this is blackmail," he supplies. "Plain and simple. And tedious, let's not forget tedious."

He shoots Molly a look.

"No wonder you found his company so lacking, love."

Milverton lets out another mocking laugh but there's anger in it. Force.

Sherlock's jab about Molly finding him boring has apparently hit its mark.

"Oh no," he's barking belligerently. Sherlock can practically feel his chest puffing up in pride, even as he's pressed against the door-jam. "This is more than blackmail," he's saying. "This is control. This is power. This is putting a bitch back in her place, putting her back on her knees where she belongs-"

Sherlock understands, though he rather wishes he didn't.

But the conclusion is obvious.

"So that's your scheme, is it?" he asks, keeping his voice mild. Bored. _Two can play at the game of baiting an opponent._ "That's your problem? You find a couple whose passions are not usual and you have photos taken of them, eh? You then set about exploiting them, making yourself rich off their worry and pain?"

He shoots Molly a look, his jaw tightening at the pain in her eyes.

"And when you find a woman you want, one you can't bend, can't seduce, you try to break her. Try to force her," he continues. "Where charm, breeding and good looks will not suffice you content yourself with threatening those she cares about in order to bring her to heel, is that what you're telling me, hmm?"

He feels anger twisting inside him, anger at this man for wanting to hurt Molly, anger at this man for not wanting to be worthy of her, for wanting to force her instead.

The burn of it- the heat of it- is making him think about doing something… regrettable.

Before he has a chance to however, he hears something to his right, hears the door opening beside him-

He tenses up, his attention diverted for just a fraction of a second too long and that, unfortunately, is all that Milverton needs to strike.


	16. Actaeon's Folly

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. So many apologies for how long it's taken me to get back to this. RL has been a bit mental these last few months. I hope, however, that you're still interested in this story, and thanks for their reviews go to chasingbluefish, devilgrrl, GettingOverGretta, MizJoely, Sherlockian_87 and JustAGirl24.

* * *

**~ ACTAEON'S FOLLY ~**

* * *

 

Despite what many of London's criminals seem to think, Sherlock is actually rather an egalitarian when it comes to doling out punishment.

Small. Large. Male. Female. He has no problem fighting anyone smaller than he and besting them, if they have been unwise enough to try and engage him in a fight. _If someone wants to start something,_ as John says, _then they had better be willing to finish it too-_

What Holmes will not do- What he has always prided himself on not permitting- is harming an innocent. Someone who has no part in whatever fight he's gotten himself into this week. Someone who is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. He is not in the business of harming the innocent-

So when a small, hidden door beside Milverton opens and a huddled female figure darts through it to throw herself in front of his opponent, Sherlock freezes.

He pulls his punch, instinctively unwilling to harm a woman when she has not tried to harm him.

Unfortunately, however, this moment's hesitation is all that Milverton's French aide needs to get to his feet and lay a heavy blow on Sherlock, knocking him sideways before kicking him once he has him on the ground-

Molly lets out a yell and swings her firearm towards the brute, which is doubtless what Milverton planned all along, judging by the grin he shoots her. For as she does so, Milverton's arm darts out and he snatches at the pistol, trying to pull it from her. Like the arms of a compass, Molly is pulled towards him and as her finger tightens on the pistol's trigger, he grabs his female shield by the hair, yanking her forcefully in front of him.

He grabs her so hard, her feet leave the ground, legs kicking against thin air like a rag doll.

Like Sherlock, Molly is unwilling to shoot an unarmed woman and she pulls her finger from the trigger, the momentary shock allowing Milverton to snatch it from her grasp and train it on her, even as his aide once again punches Sherlock, causing him to double over-

"Ma belle putain," Milverton murmurs in the girl's ear, pulling her more closely to him. "You did well: Now stay where you are in case anyone else decides to be clever."

And he grins at Molly, licks the girl's neck.

Whether she feels him do so is questionable. She certainly doesn't react to it.

No, she doesn't move at all. She doesn't even seem to know where she is. Her head is hanging, eyes downcast, and on her face she wears a white satin mask, similar to the one Sherlock saw on the young female submissive outside though this covers more, effectively blanking almost all of her features.

She, however, does not appear to be enjoying herself.

Her eyes are empty. Lost.

"Merci," the girl murmurs instead, her voice barely a whisper. She is staring rather pointedly at her feet and from where he's standing, Holmes can clearly see finger marks against her throat. There are ligature marks on her wrists and ankles 're raw. Sore-looking. Rather different from the carefully treated, lovingly balmed ones he himself sometimes sports, but then _his_ mistress cares enough to take care of him.

"Puis-je partir?" the girl asks and at the request to leave, Milverton's smile widens. "Oh no, my darling," he says. "You're staying right here: Uncle Seb's got a special task for you."

He smiles at Molly grimly.

"What do you think, Mols?" he asks. "Is my pet not lovely? Docile? Sweet? Why, she's even sweeter than yours..."

Again he licks the girl's throat. "And she's so obedient- You like obedience, don't you?"

Hooper does not bother to hide her disgust however.

"She is a child," she says, and indeed the girl can't be more than fourteen, judging by her thin limbs and youthful figure. "Even if this were where her tastes lay, you are taking advantage of an innocent-"

Milverton's eyes light with malice. "There's no such thing as innocence in this game, darling girl- Surely you know that by now?"

And he leers at her. Moves towards her.

Despite his pain Sherlock forces himself to his feet and he notes, with grim satisfaction, that Milverton does not dare renounce his human shield, no matter how close he gets.

 _This,_ Holmes muses, _Is wise._

It's an odd thing, however: At his words Molly blanches. Glances at Sherlock and then just as quickly glances away, her face twisting in worry. Anxiety. Milverton must read her expression for he laughs, his mouth curling into an obscenely smug smile.

"Oh," he says, "so your darling pet doesn't know, does he?"

Curiosity, his abiding failing, unleashes Holmes' tongue. "Know? Know what?"

 _Perhaps,_ Sherlock muses, _Milverton's need for an audience can be turned against him somehow._

Milverton laughs though and for the first time in their encounter Molly looks genuinely worried.

Once again her eyes dart to Holmes and then skitter away. _The dark orbs are dulled with… shame?_

Sherlock doesn't understand it.

"Seb," she tries, "Seb, don't-"

"Don't what?" he taunts. "Don't tell him how you played the whore for me, after dear Thomas' funeral? Don't tell him how good and dutiful you were when you had your life on the line?"

Hooper takes in a sharp gasp, her hand going to her mouth in pain. Her attention turning to Holmes even as Milverton's does likewise, his tone smug. Gloating.

The look of anguish on her face cuts Sherlock to his core.

"All that fine talk about how you wouldn't do as I bid you," Milverton hisses. "All your pride and umbridge, and when it came right down to it you acted no better than my little pet here, didn't you, Molly?"

He snickers.

"You even let me mark you…"

And his hand darts out towards Hooper's hip, towards that scar that Sherlock himself had discovered oh so long ago. The one which his barely touching had enraged Molly to the point of her throwing him from her rooms. It comes together in his head then, Molly's shamed reaction, her horror at his discovering it. That sorrow he sees in her sometimes, a sorrow much deeper than the loss of a husband, even one as beloved as her Thomas was. Anger rears its head that she didn't trust him enough to tell the whole story but he fights it down- _There will be time, later, for anger-_

He has to show Molly he understands and isn't surprised right now.

He has to show her that he's still on _her side,_ no matter what Milverton might have told him.

"So you're the reason she developed such good instincts about men," he drawls instead, making sure to keep his tone even. Bored.

_He will not amuse Milverton by showing himself to be surprised by anything he has learned this evening._

"Molly told me that she'd encountered an absolutely idiotic master before," he continues, "It's what prompted her to become so very adept at the arts of pleasure-"

And Sherlock summons his best, most smug, most irritating grin. The one which has caused John to punch him. The one which has caused Mrs. Hudson to threaten him with eviction. The one which has caused Mary to shoot at him (and he's still not convinced that she meant to miss and hit that potted plant instead).

The realisation that his little game is not having the desired effect hits Milverton and he snarls at his companion in French, orders him to take care of Sherlock even as he tosses the young girl aside in order to go for Molly-

This distraction is all that Sherlock needs; without hesitation he grabs for Molly's hand, and the girl's, and yanks both towards the still-open entrance through which the girl entered. She makes a small, mewling protest but doesn't fight overmuch.

Once through the doorway Sherlock turns looks around and heads towards the nearest light source; it makes sense, he thinks, that there is a suite of rooms back for for Milverton, away from the rest of the house. Away from the rest of his customers. He sees a light ahead, what looks like a door and then suddenly he's plunged into darkness. He hears fumbling and then a match flares into light, illuminating Molly's drawn face as she carefully lights a gaslamp to her right.

He belatedly realises that they're in darkness because she's closed the entrance behind them.

"We don't have long," she says tersely and he nods.

She is, as ever, correct.

"There has to be some way out of here," he tells her. "One entrance would be too much of a security risk for one so paranoid as Milverton is-"

Molly nods, pulling the lamp from its cornice and holding it up before her.

"Agreed," she says. "Seb is a lot of things, but he's not the sort to let himself be cornered-"

"No," Holmes says. "No, he is not."

Molly stares at him silently, opening her mouth as if she wants to say something else. As if she feels she needs to-

And then something moves in the darkness and a form appears ahead of them.

One girl appears, then another, and another-

And suddenly Sherlock realises why Mycroft sent him here.


	17. And Pretty Maids, All In A Row

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Sherlockian_87, tutu1b, MizJoely, Mistykins06, Roz1013, Katya Jade, OhAine and Raelynn. Hope you enjoy and happy Hallowe'en! 

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~ **AND PRETTY MAIDS, ALL IN A ROW** ~

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Sherlock had been suspicious, when Mycroft initially suggested the Paris assignment.

After all, accepting it would mean that his elder brother was actively sending him to meet others on the Continent. Others with whom Mycroft might have had dealings. Others with whom Mycroft doubtless would have preferred Sherlock not converse. It would mean trusting Sherlock with a task which was both delicate and diplomatically sensitive, something which even Sherlock, despite his high opinion of his own abilities, would never have suggested himself capable-

And yet, the elder Holmes had sent him, implying that this case was important and that only Sherlock could manage it.

In fact, when Sherlock had tried to beg off- taking Hooper with him not having occurred to him yet- Mycroft had gone so far as to request that he take the case.

"You need to be the one to solve this one, Brother Mine," he'd drawled. "Trust me."

If there was one thing Sherlock rarely did, it was _trust_ his big brother.

And yet, at this moment, standing in the bowels of Milverton's secret fortress, Hooper at his elbow and who knew what sort of madman at his heels, Sherlock is suddenly glad that his brother insisted.

For as he peers into the darkness before him, he realises why Mycroft sent him here.

Why this particular murder case was considered important for him.

Because there are women coming towards him from the darkness- Four of them- No, five. They shuffle awkwardly, heads down, faces wary- But they still came when they heard the voice of a stranger. Each one of their bodies is a catalogue of hurts: They wear heavy metal collars on their wrists, their ankles. Their throats. Each one of them has clearly been beaten, and perhaps worse-

And each one of them is a half of the couples whose apparent murders had brought he and Hooper to Paris.

 _He has at least found the missing brides,_ Sherlock thinks, _if not their grooms._

"Holmes," Hooper whispers, and he can tell by her tone that she has noticed what he noticed.

"I know," he says quietly, making to go towards the nearest woman before thinking better of it and stepping back. Letting Molly move towards them, the presence of a fellow woman being perhaps more soothing than that of a large, strange man, considering their obvious circumstances.

Hooper understands and gives him a grateful nod. With her usual briskness she walks over to her prospective patients, speaking to them quietly. Calling them by name. She asks them if they know where they are? How long they've been here? Do they have any wounds which need immediate treatment? _She and her companion, Mr. Holmes, are here to help_. At hearing her speak English the girls break down, some crying, others merely shaking their heads, unable, apparently, to bring themselves to speak of what has been done to them-

Behind him, Sherlock hears the sound of thumps landing on the door he, Hooper and Milverton's little pet just squeezed through.

By the sound of things, his Molly had managed to coax the door locked, but he knows there's no guarantee it will stay that way.

While he doesn't like to interrupt, he can see that Molly has realised their danger too; She asks the most calm of the girls, one Annabelle Predwilliam, whether she knows how to get out, and the young woman nods. Reaches out and takes the hand of the young, intoxicated girl that Milverton had used as a human shield, before leading them away. She takes Molly's lamp and holds it above her head as she moves, murmurs quietly to the others to keep moving-

At the realisation that they might be able to escape, even the crying girls begin pulling themselves together, trying to move with what speed and stealth they can though they are obviously in a very poor state. They trip and shuffle but do not complain; A sense of hope is palpable in the air, and Holmes is glad of it.

He does not, however, dare let himself relax.

At first Annabelle leads the small group through dingy, dirty rooms which are clearly used as dormitories. Holmes spies lice-infested straw on the floor, buckets which might be used for washing- Or other bodily necessities. Formless rags- the remains of these girls' fine clothes- hang in squalid washing lines, swaying like ghosts in the breeze. As they move further in though, the atmosphere becomes more homely, more opulent. Electric lights bulbs and lamps appear, as do chairs. Tables. Wine glasses and crockery.

Holmes cannot help but note that there is only one chair in each room, the implication being that only one person gets to sit down in this part of the building.

Only one person is important enough to warrant it.

One look at Molly's tight, pained expression tells him that she's noticed it too.

But neither of them say anything; time is of the essence. So they move as quickly as they can, Annabelle and Molly in the lead, Holmes protectively following at the has taken the precaution of securing the heaviest bludgeon he can find, in this case an iron washing mangle.

_He can only hope he gets the chance to use it on Milverton before the gendarmerie arrive._

They move through the rooms with speed, Holmes careful to take note of anything pertinent, like windows or possible escape and there lie accoutrements of pain, of the sort Molly has used on him on occasion. Flails. Paddles. Birch canes. There are white satin masks too, like the one he was given when he arrived, lying all about the place.

They and the tools of punishment are speckled with gore and blood.

When Molly notices she pales slightly but doesn't stop or say a word. None of the girls will touch them- in fact, they give them a dramatically wide berth- and this merely serves to confirm what Sherlock has begun to suspect about Milverton and the women he's kidnapped. About why he kept them alive when he probably killed their bride-grooms. It would make sense, given his obsession with Molly, that Milverton had taken his proclivities out on others. Others who, like Molly, did not enjoy them.

 _For some men,_ Sherlock knows, _the lack of enjoyment would be entirely the point._

At the thought he feels that knot of righteous rage which has been building in his breast since he got here smoke. He passes another blood-spatted mask and this ember of feeling bursts into naked flame. He will not allow that bastard to hurt anyone else, he silently swears. Not these women. Not Molly.

_Especially not his Molly._

Milverton has hurt an innocent for the last time.

Maybe this sentiment shows on his face because Molly catches his eye. Frowns questioningly at him. He shakes his head- _when we're alone-_ he mouths at her and for some reason this seems to upset more than reassure.

He can't imagine why but right now he can't really concentrate on it.

For they've come to the end of their journey: before them he can see two sets of loading doors, of the wooden sort which open out onto the river and allow a kitchen to be stocked. _Of course,_ he muses, _if Milverton had had all of this built into the building then Mycroft would have heard whispers of it._

More likely he'd simply sealed off the oldest part of the Hotel Marisol, the part below street-level, in order to create his little retreat.

But, Holmes thinks, if he, Hooper and the girls can get through those doors and into the river then they can raise the alarm before Milverton even realises they've gotten out- Maybe even before he has a chance to skip Paris-

Determination comes to him and he smiles grimly. Gestures sharply to Molly to join him at the loading doors, taking the lamp from Annabelle even as she does so. Before he can ask she picks out a pin from her hair and hands it to him, smiling slightly; He doesn't even bother asking how she knew. _He has seen Mary perform such acts of conjuration with John before_. As he kneels down and starts jimmying the doors' padlock, Molly moves back towards the girls, her eyes narrowed, her every sense strained as she tries to keep watch over their new charges-

It takes a moment, just a moment, and then the doors swing open, the sound of the rushing river filling the room.

The girls gasp, rushing forward, and take what must be their first gulp of fresh air in months.

Sherlock and Molly gesture to them, hoping that all of them can swim even if they don't want to dump themselves in the ice-cold Seine-

And it's while their attention is on the river that they heard the first screams.


	18. The All-Consuming Kiss

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to renniejoy, Nydamascus97, Raelynn, MizJoely and Roz1013- Hope you enjoy this. Hobbits away, hey!

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~ **THE ALL-CONSUMING KISS** ~

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Sherlock recognises the smell first.

Ash. Singed hair. Burnt wood. Smoke.

The sounds come to him next- muted, though obvious. The voices are high. Terrified. He gets the sounds of running. The sounds of panic. A stampede is happening on the other side of the building and without a word he reaches out. Touches the stone wall to his right.

The brick is warm to the hand, far warmer than any cosy hearth might be responsible for.

One look at him and Molly does the same, her face pulling into a grimace as she does so.

"He's running," he says tightly and she nods. She knows who he means.

"Seb never was the sort to hang around and live with the consequences of his actions," she says, her mouth twisting angrily. "Looks like he'd rather get rid of the evidence than stand and fight."

And she shakes her head. Goes back over to the bay doors, stares down at the raging water below. Sherlock feels a twist of frustration; he doesn't want to give Milverton the opportunity to come looking for Molly. He doesn't want to leave her vulnerable. And yet-

He looks at Annabelle. "How well do you know the city?"

The young woman blinks at him in surprise. "Extremely well, sir," she says. "I used to come here every summer with Mama and Papa."

"And your French is passable?"

Again she nods. "I can pass for a native."

"Good," he says. "Good. Then I want you to go through those doors there-" He nods at the wooden bay doors, "and get into the river. You swim to the far side of the bank and then you scream for a policeman, do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," she says. She takes a deep breath and straightens up. Steps towards the doors before looking back at her fellow prisoners.

"I'll go first, understood?" she tells them. "You watch what I do and you do the same, alright?"

Though the girls look worried they each nod. Only Milverton's little pet doesn't answer but when Annabelle offers the girl her hand she takes it. Together they step through the loading bay doors and drop into the water below. Sherlock watches them land, sees them splash and flail about before surfacing. The younger girl has clamoured up onto Annabelle's back; for the first time this evening she seems to be conscious of her surroundings.

Both women spare a backward glance at he and Molly before they set off for the far bank.

"Alright, ladies," Molly says evenly. "One down, the rest of you to go-"

Though the girls look frightened they each make their way towards the loading doors. One by one they leap into the Seine, some screaming at the ice-cold water. Some swearing as they duck beneath the waves.

Each one of them, however, surfaces and starts trailing Annabelle towards the far shore, their weakness and despair forgotten at the chance of freedom-

When the last one has jumped in, Sherlock gestures Molly towards the water. "In you go," he says. "You get them to the far shore and then you demand to speak to someone from the Foreign Office. Drop my brother's name if you have to, do you hear?"

Molly is staring at him like he's insane.

"I'm not letting you go back into Milverton's lair without me," she says incredulously. "Do you honestly think I'd risk your safety like that?"

Sherlock blinks at her in surprise. She tries to take his hand but he pulls back from her.

"To be honest- Yes," he says. He rushes on when he sees the familiar, mulish set her jaw has taken. _He doesn't have time for an argument right now_. "He's hurt you before Molly," he says softly. "He said as much. He's going to hurt you again if he's given half a chance. He's bigger than you and he's out there now and I don't know that I could live with myself, were he to- Were I to-"

He stares at her, willing her to understand.

She shakes her head in exasperation though. She's always so much more stubborn than people give her credit for.

"And do you think that _I_ could live with myself, knowing I'd thrown you into his path?" she asks. "Do you think I could bear to let him hurt you?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I'm not Thomas-"

"And I'm not Annabelle." She speaks over him. "I'm not one of those poor girls we've just rescued. I'm not the little housewife he took advantage of all those years ago. I'm your, your… Mistress, and your lover, and your friend, and that being the case, I'm not letting you go in there without me, I don't care how bloody noble you think you're being."

And she crosses her arms, glares at him.

Sherlock growls in annoyance and after a moment she softens. Reaches out and touches him, pressing him back into the building with a hand to his chest.

Despite the smallness of her fingers, they seems to have a palpable weight.

"You wouldn't go into a situation like this in London without John present," she's saying. "Don't look at me like that- You know you wouldn't. So don't go into a situation like this in Paris without a friend at your back."

Her fingers twine around his. Tighten. Her gaze is beseeching.

As always when she looks at him like this, Sherlock feels his heart twist in his chest.

"Please," she says quietly. "Please let me finish this, Sherlock." She looks away, her gaze haunted. Worried. "Let me finish this. Let me finish _him-_

"I'll never be free if I don't."

Though he wants with every fibre of his being to tell her no, he can't. He hasn't the heart to. And he also recognises that she's correct: his chances of finding and apprehending Milverton are far better with her beside him. _Two pairs of eyes are always better than one_. And if she's here he at least knows that Seb doesn't have her cornered somewhere else. At least he knows she's safe- Or something almost like it.

So he forces his sentiment away. Draws himself up haughtily. _He may have to do this, but he doesn't have to well bloody like it._ "Keep up, I know you're short," he snaps. "Don't slow me down, and do as you're told when I tell you."

At this, he has the pleasure of seeing her smile.

She reaches up and presses a kiss to his lips before darting away.

"After you, Mr. Holmes," she says, gesturing towards the wall behind them, the wall through which they must get if they're to find Milverton and help anyone caught in his Hotel Marisol. "Don't worry, I'll try to keep up," she tells him as she moves into the lead.

Sherlock puts his head down and follows her into the darkness, swearing to himself as he goes.

* * *

 

They backtrack, because it's simplest.

It also has the added bonus of keeping them away from the worst of the flames.

By the time they've made it back to the secret door through which they entered, however, the fire has spread through a significant portion of the house.

The air is thick with black, stinging smoke and the temperature has risen abominably.

Nevertheless, they press onwards, both of them setting their shoulders to the passage door Molly locked and managing to budge it. They find no trace of Milverton on the other side of it, nor of his accomplice.

They do, however, find a couple of rags to press over their mouths, lest their intake of smoke prove too much.

After they tie the kerchiefs on talking proves impossible, but luckily both of them are adept at communicating without words. They stalk through the house, eyes peeled, stopping only to wake anyone who appears to have been knocked out by the smoke. Most they can get moving but a few are dead by the time they arrive; One such is the young woman who had thrown her clothes at Sherlock when he first entered the Hotel Marisol. At spotting her Molly stops. Checks her pulse. With a small snarl she shakes her head and closes the girl's eyes, her hand darting out to give Sherlock's arm a squeeze before they move on.

He finds himself oddly grateful for her presence, in that moment.

Her eyes tell him so much more than words usually can.

With an angry shake of his head he stalks forward, moving ahead of Molly. They turn a corner, preparing to delve into the only part of the house they haven't yet searched and as they do, Sherlock catches a glimpse of… something, out of the corner of his eye. Something unusual.

No, something... wrong.

He stops. Frowns. Turns to look at it.

Molly follows suit.

Instinctively Sherlock moves himself in front of her.

The sight which has caught their attention is a man, his face covered in a kerchief just like theirs, and just like them he is moving at a quick, sure pace. But there's just something… off about him, Sherlock thinks. Something not quite right. He's neither panicking nor attempting to escape the inferno, he's merely walking around, his eyes peeled.  He looks alert. Focussed. With his mismatched old and new clothes, his arms brimming with expensive silk dresses, he should look like naught but a common thief, here to make light work of any treasures the Hotel Marisol's unfortunate patrons have left behind. His gait though, it's not the gait of a man used to moving in shadows.

There's a strutting, obvious air to it which draws attention no matter its owner's obvious desire for stealth.

Sherlock curses under his breath. Pulls Molly to closer.

He knows who it is now.

She follows his gaze and when she sees the figure his suspicions are confirmed by her hissed, angry, "Seb!"

For his part Milverton doesn't dally; he hurls his bounty right at them and heads straight for the staircase, probably reasoning that they won't follow him up there. The drapes and curtains of the building have gone up in flames and the floors will soon be next.

Following him up there would be suicide, anyone could see that.

But Sherlock will not allow his quarry to escape and possibly survive- Milverton is going to prison or he's meeting his Maker. He's certainly not being given the chance to harm Molly again. Maybe the other man realises as much because he picks up speed, begins running now. His hand strays inside his waist-coat and Sherlock instinctively knows he's not reaching for a knife- _No, there would be no use at all in attacking him with a blade from this distance-_

Time seems to slow, the heat and the loudness engulfing Holmes.

He comes to a halt, his brain firing with information, about his surroundings. About what he knows of guns. About what he can do to get out of the way, how he can protect Molly and keep her from harm. He sees Milverton stretch out his arm. Take aim. His eyes are gleaming, bright and burning and vicious. He's enjoying himself.

"She's not going to miss you for long," Milverton mutters. "At least, not when I'm through with her…"

And his finger moves towards the trigger, his grin widening. Triumphant. He adjusts his aim-

And that's when Molly throws herself in between them. Blocking the bullet. Protecting herself. Protecting her lover.

It's also when she smashes a large hat stand she's picked up towards the floorboards at Milverton's feet, her voice hoarse as she shrieks out her war cry.

The bullet goes off just as the floor gives out from beneath Milverton's feet: Sherlock watches in a mix of satisfaction and horror as the other man tumbles down towards the flames. He screams in terror as he goes. Both Holmes and Molly drag themselves to the edge of the hole in the floor and check to make sure he's not moving-

Sebastian Milverton's eyes stare up at them glassily, one hand at his chest where it's been impaled by a piece of smoking floor-board.

His gun lies beside him, useless.

The last thing he sees in this life is Molly Hooper taking her lover's hand and leading him away from his sight.

What he doesn't see is the pool of blood now staining Molly's dress.


	19. Lacrimae Rerum

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. **Please be aware that this chapter discusses the loss of a child, as well as an abusive relationship; if you would rather not read it, skip to the next chapter**. Thanks for their reviews go to MizJoely, Sundance201, Sherlockian_87, renniejoy, Soberdog, Icecat62 and OhAine.

* * *

~ **LACRIMAE RERUM** ~

* * *

 

They don't go back to their hotel that night.

Given Molly's injuries, and the fact that Milverton had some of the staff in his pay, Sherlock feels it unsafe to take Molly back there.

She has been through quite enough tonight, he'd wager, without risking it.

So once he has ascertained that Annabelle and the others have found the gendarmes and led them back to the burning Hotel Marisol, he bundles Molly into a cab and takes her to one of Mycroft's safe houses in Montmartre. Agents often make use of this network when on the run and while it will not be glamourous, he can be certain that the house will be stocked with food, fresh clothing and supplies for treating Molly's wounded arm- If the house's keeper doesn't shoot him on sight, that is.

Apparently she has form for that sort of thing.

When the cabbie arrives at the door, Sherlock helps Molly carefully down and then pays the man, adding a large tip enough tip that his silence should be assured. Arm in arm, he and she make their way to the door, Sherlock rapping sharply on it three times, then once more for good measure.

Molly cocks an eyebrow at him but he says nothing.

She opens her mouth to ask but at the last moment seems to think better of it, returning her attention to her injured arm.

Sherlock hears mutters, the sound of shuffling feet and then the door creaks open an inch. A pair of narrowed, dark eyes are just about visible in the gloom. They flicker between Molly and he, taking in their appearance, and then he hears a sharp, "What about you, eh?"

The voice is female, the words strongly accented.

Their owner sounds older, vaguely Caribbean.

"We're looking for an umbrella," Sherlock says quietly, repeating what has to be the most inane password his brother has ever come up with. "Might I borrow yours, Madame Evangeline? I shall return it by morning."

There's a string of muttered swear-words and the door swings open.

The house's keeper lifts an oil lamp and holds it high, ignoring Sherlock to peer at Molly.

"That's some bad work, that," she says to her, taking in her bloodied arm.. "You come inside, your boy too, and we see what we can do, eh?"

And "Madame Evangeline," moves out of the way, gesturing impatiently for Sherlock and Molly to enter. They do so, pushing by her and watching as she stows the shotgun Holmes hadn't even realised she was holding behind the door, before using her walking stick to poke said door closed, re-latching a truly impressive amount of locks as she goes. The entrance thus secured, she gestures down the hall to an open door on the right, jabbing at it with her stick for emphasis.

"Infirmary be in there," she says. "You use whatever supplies you want, I bring you down some food in a few minutes."

Molly opens her mouth to say thank you but the woman brushes by her, turning and stalking wordlessly up the stairs.

"You make sure you not engaged in no monkey business when I come down there," she tosses over her shoulder before turning to the right. "Your boy too, you got that? I don't care what that old devil Mycroft Holmes told you, I run a clean house."

A moment later Sherlock and Molly hear another door bang shut, followed by heavy, shuffling footsteps pacing the floor and the sounds of rattling pots and pans. The pipes groan as if someone has turned a tap on.

"She's cheerful," Molly mutters, easing her way towards the infirmary and pushing the door open.

As he helps her inside Sherlock smiles. "They say she's the only woman ever permitted to guard the door at the Diogenes," Sherlock says quietly. "Toughest door-keep in the service, according to my brother."

Molly frowns, looking at him. "You've brought me to a fortress," she says. "Why?"

Sherlock can't help it, suddenly the floor is _fascinating_. "I should think that would be obvious," he retorts. "I mean, after all you've been through tonight-"

"It wasn't your fault."

The words come out of nowhere, said with such quiet conviction that they confuse Sherlock.

_What the Devil is she getting at?_

"Of course it wasn't my fault," he answers incredulously. "It was that bastard Milverton's fault-"

"Then why are you coddling me, Sherlock?" Molly asks, her voice strained. "Why are you trying to wrap me in cotton wool and hiding me away?"

Sherlock honestly hasn't an idea what she's on about.

"Don't you want somewhere safe to rest?" he asks and immediately regrets it, seeing the pained expression which darts across Molly's face. She hunches in on herself, her posture turning defensive. Small.

"There's nowhere safe," she mutters. "There's never anywhere safe-"

"Of course there are places that are safe, Molly," he says gently. "This is such a place- There are many such places-"

"No there isn't." And suddenly, without any warning, Molly bursts into tears, the stress of the evening apparently finally getting to her. She buries her face in Sherlock's chest and sobs as if her heart will break, muttering about danger, and failure, and how she didn't protect him. How she didn't want him to see this, how she never, _ever_ wanted him to be at the mercy of a bastard like Sebastian Milverton and his Hotel Marisol…

Having been around all sorts of people in their time of upset, Holmes knows what this is a normal reaction, one which John would doubtless suggest is beneficial. (Letting the patient get it all out and suchlike, before they try to heal). On the other hand, not ever having been good at dealing with emotion, he panics. Freezes. _He really doesn't want to do the wrong thing by his Molly_. For a split second he literally has no idea what to do, now that his lovely, brave, stalwart Mistress has started acting like, well, like a woman- _It's so seldom that she's acted like a woman-_

But then he thinks back to all the things they have shared.

The upsets.

The secrets.

The trust- _Oh, the trust especially._

He remembers the past months, and all they've meant to him, all _she's_ meant to him, and in that moment he realises what he has to do. What she needs.

_She always does what she must for him and for once it's his turn._

So he wraps his arms around her waist- keeping a careful distance from her injured arm- and he hushes her. Rocks her. Murmurs to her that it's alright, that she can let it all out now because he's here. Murmurs that there's nothing she can show him which would give him cause to doubt her or them.

At first she tries to resist but when he doesn't pull away, when he simply holds on, eventually she seems to settle in her weeping. She seems to make her peace with it. She sobs, tearless, hopeless sobs which might have wrung feeling from a stone statue, let alone a man like Sherlock Holmes-

He doesn't know how long it takes, but when she's cried herself out she looks up at him, her eyes embarrassed. Ashamed.

Sherlock kisses her but doesn't say anything.

No, rather he releases her and makes his way over to the other side of the room. Starts sorting through what medical supplies he can find there as Molly looks on. Wordlessly he holds his hand out to her, sets her sitting down on a comfortable chair. He sees to her injuries, just as he had on that long ago day in the St Bartholomew's morgue, when she punched Anderson for him.

She watches him work as he patches her up, and though she says nothing it feels… peaceful, between them.

* * *

 

After they've seen to her arm, and after they've eaten the meal Mistress Evangeline silently left in, Sherlock takes her upstairs to the top of the house, to the bedroom the operatives use.

It's spartan and neat, spotlessly clean though thoroughly gloomy. The wind catches at the windowpanes and makes them rattle. The floorboards creak with every step. There's a double bed though, and a lit fire, and the brusque Evangeline has left out a clean night rail and night shirt for her guests, as well as two heated bricks to put in the bed and warm it.

At the sight Molly smiles, stepping into the room and closing the door quietly behind her.

If Sherlock is surprised when she turns the key in the lock then he doesn't say a thing.

Silently she pads towards the fire, from force of habit attempting to undo her dress as she moves. Of course, that's not a possibility with an injured arm and all she does is cause herself to hiss in pain.

Immediately Sherlock comes to her aide, sets about opening the hooks at the dress's back.

He's always amazed how much ladies get done, when forced to wear such ridiculous contraptions.

When he has it done she throws him a half grateful, half chagrined smile and steps out of the ruined garment, leaving her standing in only her shift and corset; He hesitates but then she catches his hands, brings them to her laces and presses his fingers to them.

Wordlessly he nods and starts unspooling the ribbons, pulling them open before sliding his hands inside and pushing the stiff satin away from her skin. Splaying his palms against her belly and pulling her tight to his chest.

For once in their acquaintance, she comes easily and oh, that makes him glad.

For she leans back into him, her head resting against his heart; with gentle hands he unhooks the corset's straps and pushes it down and off, leaving her standing in front of him in only her shift. The heat of the fire turns it near-transparent and, pressing a kiss to her throat, Sherlock slides it off her shoulders, kneeling to pull it all the way off her, just as he had with her corset and dress. Her hand finds his shoulder as she steps out of the underthings, using him to steady her. When he looks up at her, her eyes are dark. Almost… shy? Unfathomable.

"You really are taking good care of me, aren't you?" she says quietly.

He smiles. Presses a kiss to her belly, then her knee. Then her feet. Her hands curl in his hair, petting him almost.

"You take good care of me," he says. "I should like to return the favour, once in awhile."

A shadow passes across her face. She seems to be bracing herself for something. "So you're not… After what you found out tonight..?"

And she shakes her head to herself, her frustration obvious. As she would doubtless do for him, Sherlock pulls her to him. Sits down on the bed and sets her on his lap.

It's rather odd, seeing her so unsure as this.

"I told you," he says softly, "you shouldn't blame yourself for what Milverton done- I'd have gone to face him whether you had been here or no."

She looks at him, her dark eyes serious. "And what he told you about me, tonight?" she asks, quietly. "What say you to that? What say you to the notion that I was- that I allowed myself to be-"

And just for a second, it seems she's going to cry again. His mind flashes back to that moment in Seb's office, to his words- _"Don't tell him how you played the whore for me, after dear Thomas' funeral? Don't tell him how good and dutiful you were when you had your life on the line?"_ \- and he frowns in confusion. Tries to work out how to react. Because yes, he'd been angry earlier that she apparently had a secret, but surely she didn't think him so heartless as to hold it against her now?

"Whatever you did," he says quietly, "I do not doubt that you felt it your wisest course-"

"But that's just it," she whispers. "I knew it was an unwise course. I knew he would hurt me and break his word, but still I let myself be bid…"

Sherlock steels himself, knowing as he does that he probably will not like the answer to his next question. But sometimes, poison must be drawn from a wound.

"And what did he bid you do?" he asks her carefully. "What is it that could torture you like this?"

For a long moment she stares at him, saying nothing and then slowly… Slowly…

Slowly she takes his hand and brings it down to her side, pressing it against the scar there. The one which she was always so touchy about. The one which she never wanted to discuss with him. Frowning, holding her gaze, Sherlock slides his fingers over the raised flesh, pondering what it might mean. What she's trying to tell him.

And then he sees it.

 _Oh Lord, he sees it_.

She sees the realisation in his eyes and in that moment he thinks he's never felt more heartbreakingly close to anyone in his life. For-

"There was a child," he whispers, and he doesn't need to see her nod to know he's right. "There was a child, from Thomas; That's how Milverton controlled you for so long. That's why you- That's how he was able to make you do what he said."

 _After all,_ he muses, _if one wanted to control Molly Hooper then one had to threaten those she loves; she'd not a care for herself._

Molly nods, her lip trembling. Her face has gone pale, eyes bright, but she seems unable to stop herself from uttering the words.

Her fingers twist in his shirt, over and over again.

"It was our first," she murmurs. "Thomas and I. He didn't know about it before he… Before he ended things. I only found out after he'd died, a few days after the funeral, actually."

Sherlock understands. "And that's what Milverton held over you, isn't it?" he says, rage burning in his belly. _Death had been too good for the bastard._ "He told you he'd provide for the child. Told you he'd see that it had the inheritance its father would have wanted.

He told you he'd keep it safe."

Molly nods. "I knew he was lying," she says. She sounds so hopeless. "I knew he wasn't to be trusted, but I did it anyway. Because if there was even a shred of possibility that I could keep something of my Thomas then I had to risk it. I had to try, even if it meant laying down with a pig like Sebastian Milverton…Even if it meant letting him treat me with the same contempt he treated that poor little girl we met tonight..."

And she wraps her uninjured arm around him suddenly, pulling him to her with a passion. Shifts so that she's straddling him rather than in his lap, her legs tightening around him, her eyes suddenly full of want. Of need. Sherlock tips his face up and takes her kisses, takes her passion, lets her spend it on him even as he pulls her more tightly to him. Even as he envelopes her in the cocoon of his affection.

Eventually they have to pull apart, the need for air becoming too much, and he leans into Molly. Presses kisses to her forehead as he smoothes her hair away from her face.

He smiles at her, pouring every ounce of affection he can into his gaze. Willing her to understand it. Willing her to understand him.

She leans in too, laying her forehead against his, and he thinks she does.

"You know, don't you?" she says eventually. "You've deduced what happened to the baby."

He nods. Tries to make his voice kindly. He can't imagine what he's about to say will be pleasant to hear and yet, he knows she's strong enough for him to say.

"The child was lost," he begins quietly. "I could be wrong, but I imagine through some action of Milverton's. A beating which got out of hand, perhaps?"

She shakes her head. "It was the kneeling," she says, and for the first time there's a jag of bitterness to her voice. "He used to make me kneel and hold his food up to him. Would leave me on the floor on my knees for hours. Once he insisted I do it for an entire day- I was weak after Thomas' death, I hadn't the stamina for it and I was tired, so tired…" She sighs. "I tripped… It was only a couple of steps, but I tripped and the way I landed…"

She winces at the memory, her hand going to that wound on her side again, burying her face in his shoulder. He nods grimly in understanding: A cut like that, in so vulnerable an area, would be dangerous indeed to a pregnant woman. For one weak with grief and illness it would be more dangerous still. And so little was known of obstetrics, it was quite possible that the loss of the child had prevented her ever having another…

He stares down at her as he thinks it and in that moment he thinks _his_ heart, black, tar-like organ that it is, might break.

 _Oh, my beautiful Molly,_ he thinks. _How strong have you had to be to endure this?_

So he lifts her. Lays her down in the bed. Discards his clothes before climbing in beside her and wrapping her in his embrace again. Though she's still obviously upset she's not crying; she clings to him as tightly as she can though. It takes a few moments but eventually she calms again. Loosens her grip again.

When she does so he looks down at her in question.

"So now you know all my secrets, Sherlock," she says. Her voice is tiny. "What are you going to do with them?"

There are a thousand things he could say, things he knows would be useless, things he knows might even be terrible. He can never be entirely sure that what he's about to say is a bit Not Good, but-

He opts for leaning down and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I'll keep them, if you'll give their keeping to me," he says. "If not, I'll do with them as you bid me."

He's not sure why it's the right thing to say, he knows only that it brings tears to Molly's eyes again. Good tears. Loving tears.

He cups her face and brushes them away with his thumbs and she leans her body against his. Lets him.

"You really are extraordinary, aren't you?" she murmurs.

He smiles and pulls her tightly to him.

"For the great Molly Hooper," he says, "I would be nothing less."

When he looks down at her again she's fallen asleep.


	20. The Garden In Winter, The Garden In Spring

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. This isn't actually the last chapter- There's one more. But I wanted to get it out there. And thanks for their reviews go to OhAine, Sherlockian_87, mslestat76, Raelynn, Mistykins06, MizJoely, Sundance201, devilgrrl and ashockinglackofsatin(satin doll). Hope you enjoy and hang in there...

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**~ THE GARDEN IN WINTER, THE GARDEN IN SPRING ~**

* * *

 

When Sherlock wakes the next morning, Molly's not there.

The bed's still warm, the blankets tucked neatly around him. His clothes have been folded and placed on a stool to his right. Her clothes are gone (with the exception of her corset and bloodied shirtwaist) and the remains of a breakfast, half-eaten, sits on the table beside the window.

Other than that, the room is unchanged. Undisturbed. If their host had been displeased at the sight of them in bed together, she has left no sign of it.

And yet… And yet…

With a frown he gets out of the bed, hissing at the feel of the cold floor-boards against his feet, and walks over to the tray. Puts his hand to the pot of what he assumes is tea and then realises is hot chocolate. The pot's still warm, one used cup set beside it, the other still clean; There's toast and porridge in a cracked earthenware bowl, also still warm, and beside that a small note in Molly's hand.

 _Still alive,_ it says. _Not kidnapped. Just needed to get some air- I'll see you at the Hotel. M_

Sherlock frowns, the words tugging at something he can't rightly name. He knows well how it feels to need some air, or even some time to himself. He doesn't begrudge Molly that. But still, the fact that she didn't wake him… That she stole from the house like a thief… It makes him uneasy. After everything they went through together yesterday, he had thought that they might speak today. Might perhaps even spend the day together, before they had to head back to London and their respective lives.

He's surprised Molly hadn't wanted the same, if he's being honest.

Surprised and a little… hurt.

 _Did you ask her for that?_ A voice which sounds uncannily like John's prompts in his head, and he is forced to allow that, no, he didn't.

They had had far too much to be getting on with, last night, for talk about the morrow.

 _Women aren't mind-readers, Sherlock,_ he hears Watson point out with a smile. _Surely watching Mary and I has shown you that?_

Despite himself Sherlock smiles, the memory of his two friends prompting, as ever, a burst of warm feeling in his breast. If ever he were the kind to believe in blessings, he would consider the Watsons a blessing indeed. _Molly too, now that he's thinking on it._ And given the independance he has witnessed in both Molly and Mary, he supposes he shouldn't be disturbed by the waywardness of this missive. Molly went through an awful lot last night; he should have expected she might need time to sort through her feelings.

She may also have not wanted an audience to them yet; He understands that too.

The disconsolate feeling her absence prompts will pass, he tells himself. Of course it will. And until it does, he's going to have breakfast. Set himself up for the day.

It will, after all, be a long one.

So he dresses. Sits down and tucks in. The food is surprisingly good, though perhaps he should not have doubted Madame Evangeline in that arena- His brother being the gourmand that he is. And spies, like any other army, march on their stomach. Madame Evangeline would know that.

As good as the food is however, it doesn't settle the knot in his stomach, or make him breathe any easier.

Only Molly can do that, he knows- And Molly isn't here.

* * *

 

By the time he gets to the Hotel, their room is being packed up. Molly sits in the middle of things, resplendent in a pale pink and lemon day dress, and supervises the maids with a surprising degree of assurance.

She does this while sipping tea and nibbling on pastries, looking every inch the society hostess her cover said she was.

That her presence is unwelcome is obvious- Word has already gone around the hotel that three of the day staff and the concierge have been detained by the police on her and her husband's say so. (That it was for spying, blackmail and accessory to murder, in the case of the missing bridegrooms Milverton killed, is not as well known, though whether it might mitigate the staff's feelings is not something Sherlock can guess). Nevertheless, despite the frosty reception she's getting, Molly gives no indication of noticing their disdain.

She seems rather too interested in her tea for that.

When she notices Sherlock at the door of their rooms, watching her, she stands and goes to him. Gives him a soft, sweet kiss which is quite a bit briefer than he would like.

"Darling," she murmurs, "I'm seeing to things. Would you like to get a brandy downstairs while you wait for us to finish?"

At seeing her, he can't help it. A puff of relief bursts in his chest. "I want no brandy," he says quietly, "unless you might also sip it." He kisses her again, longer and harder this time, and he has the double pleasures of hearing her breath catch, seeing the maids glare at them.

When Molly looks up at him, her eyes are darkened slightly with arousal.

He notes proudly that she must take a moment to shrug it off- But shrug it off she does.

"We've much to do," she says, her tone matter-of-fact. "We leave this afternoon and they say the journey will be rough; I've no wish to be stuck on the high seas in this little slip of a dress.

Drink if you wish, I must finish here."

And she turns from him. Says something sharp to one of the maids who is not folding a dress to her specifications before settling back down to her tea.

Feeling slightly bewildered- and more than a little cross- Sherlock stands and wanders down to the bar. Has himself that brandy.

When the cab to take them to port arrives, it's one of the porters who comes to fetch him, not his erstwhile "wife."

* * *

 

The journey back to England is rough, and Molly is as sick as a dog.

She is forced to stay in their cabin, vomiting and moaning; the constant jostling about does her injured arm no good, and her illness does Sherlock's worries no favours.

She is, quite frankly, too sick to talk.

When they finally make land she's so ill that Sherlock must pick her up and carry her to the carriage Mycroft has sent for them. He holds her in his lap the entire way to the Diogenes Club and for once she makes no complaint. Mycroft's driver, Anthea, does cock an eyebrow at him in question; He answers it with a stuck-out tongue and the other woman snickers.

Molly, it seems is too sick to object to his childishness and for that, he is grateful.

When they arrive at Diogenes, Sherlock helps Molly up to the Visitor's Room and together they debrief his brother. If the elder Holmes knew that Milverton and Molly had history then he gives no indication of it. He merely asks pointedly whether they're sure the blighter's dead and Molly assures him in equally imperious- though slightly less unruffled- tones that he is-

"Unless he can survive having a large stake shoved through his chest, in which case I should think you'd be speaking to Professor Van Helsing, not us."

From the corner of his eye Sherlock sees Anthea snicker at that and he can't help but join her.

At hearing the circumstances of that death Mycroft inclines his head always he elects to ignore his brother's manners (or lack thereof). "Her Majesty's government owes you a debt, Miss Hooper," he says gravely. "As do I- It seems you saved my darling brother's life."

Molly inclines her head sharply in turn, trying her best, Sherlock thinks, to match his brother's gravitas despite how green she still is with seasickness. "There is not a soul whom I would allow to hurt your brother," she says softly. "Pray do remember that."

And her hand reaches out for Sherlock's. Gives it a squeeze.

It's the first time _she's_ reached for _him_ since Paris.

Mycroft's eyes narrow at the display of affection but he says nothing. Merely gestures to a small case tucked beside his desk. "Anthea took the liberty of picking up some of your clothes and other… accoutrements, Miss Hooper," he says. "My brother and I shall let you change in private- A woman in that dress being seen entering Matthew Hooper's quarters would raise too many questions, don't you think?"

Again Molly inclines her head- "You're too kind, Mr. Holmes,"- and before Sherlock can say anything his brother is manoeuvring him out of the room. Muttering that, whatever their relationship, Miss Hooper must be allowed change in private. Sherlock's tempted to tell his brother precisely how much he's seen Molly Hooper naked- if only to stop the smug look on his face- but were he to do that then he knows Mummy would soon be on his doorstep, demanding to know when the nuptials were planned for.

_Best chat to Molly before that happens._

So he allows himself to be ushered into Mycroft's study.

Allows himself to be distracted by talk of cases and leads and his brother's own unique brand of sibling banter.

He's in there for an hour, kept distracted by Mycroft's chatter and the lure of possible cases. By the time he realises that Molly should be ready by now, Anthea glides into the room and informs him that she's already left.

* * *

 

He goes to her flat in Chinatown but she's not there; when he turns up at Bart's Stamford tells him that Matthew Hooper has taken a leave of absence, starting immediately.

"His sister, Holmes," he says. "Very ill, and there's nobody else to nurse her. In all his years' service, Hooper's never asked for any leave- I thought it heartless to refuse."

And the broadly-built man shakes his head, indicating to a sullen Anderson that he needs help wheeling in one of the morgue's corpses. This the other man does, glaring at Sherlock in barely disguised loathing.

It's a measure of how distracted that Sherlock doesn't bother to throw him a baiting smile.

"Anything I can help you with?" Stamford asks, but Holmes merely bites out a curt negative. Inclines his head shortly to the man and makes to leave the morgue, post haste.

Anderson calls him a bastard under his breath as he goes.

* * *

 

He walks home to Baker Street, brain too busy and whirring to want a cab. Too impatient to be put up with even finding one.

When he looks up (after an hours' walking) however, it's at John and Mary's home that he finds himself, and it's on their door he knocks.

John's not home yet and Mary has the baby at her hip, but she still she lets him in.

It seems to Sherlock that, just by looking at him, she knows why he's here.

Once John arrives home Sherlock explains, as delicately as he can, the situation. Tells the Watsons how he and Molly had encountered a foe from Hooper's past, how they had vanquished him.

How Molly had, in fact, saved him, at great danger to herself.

"And now suddenly she seems not to want my presence," he says quietly. "After all we've been through together, it feels… It feels like she's slipping away."

He tightens his jaw stubbornly.

"I'll not let her slip away, you may depend on it-"

"That's not very helpful, dear heart." Mary sighs and both Sherlock and John look at her sharply. The former spy cocks her head, eyeing Holmes; Her eldest, Clara, is sleeping in her arms. After a moment she stands, indicates that Sherlock should be the same.

She then hands him the sleeping infant.

"Tell me what you feel when you look at her," she says quietly.

John opens his mouth to object but at his wife's cocked eyebrow he holds his peace.

Sherlock stares down at Clara, feeling the delicacy of her. The warmth and the weight. She's breathing in that sweet, calming way that infants have, every breath a small puff of hope. "I don't understand, Mary," he says. "Hooper is far from an infant-"

"As are you." Mary's voice is calm as she speaks over him. "But what do you _feel,_ Sherlock? I promise, I will explain if you tell me. Think of it… Think of it as an experiment."

He frowns. Tries to conjure what she's getting at. He doesn't understand, but he does trust her, so… "I feel… I feel tender," he begins. "Lucky. Grown up. Big and strong and capable- She is so vulnerable, in comparison to me."

Mary's gaze is shrewd. "That's good- What else?"

He throws her a disgruntled look. "There isn't anything else, woman."

Mary's eyes gentle. "Believe me, dear heart, there is- Tell me."

And she nods encouragingly. Smiles. Still unsure, Sherlock hefts the sleeping baby onto his shoulder, as he has seen her father do before. She lets out a little burp and he winces, wondering if his jacket shoulder is ruined- Again.

"I feel… I feel protective," he says, after a moment. He feels like an idiot saying it. "I'm- When she's in my arms, I am responsible for Clara. It's my job to keep her safe from any and all harm."

"And what would you do if you did not keep her safe?"

The question comes from John, standing now, his expression showing that he understands where his wife is going with her inquiries. "If you were to fail Clara, what would you do?"

Sherlock scoffs. "I wouldn't fail her." He looks at from John to Mary and back again. "I would never fail her."

John smiles. "I dare say you're right, but what if you thought you had?"

Holmes frowns, trying to parse his feelings. Still completely bewildered by what his friends are getting at. "I'd be angry at myself," he says, his tone uncertain. "I'd- I'd feel angry, and unhappy, and I suspect I'd behave badly about it-"

"Might you run away to visit a fictitious sister?" Mary asks gently.

Sherlock turns to look at her. Blinks in surprise. She couldn't mean-

"But I told Molly I was alright," he says. "I told her no harm was done to me."

"She may not believe you, old friend," John says softly, reaching out and taking the baby from him. "Or she may still feel guilty, even if you're not hurt. The heart is a wayward organ, in love as in all else."

Again Sherlock scoffs. "The heart is a pulmonary organ, nothing more," he snaps.

John's smile is wry. "And how's your pulmonary organ feeling, eh?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to snap back an answer, but for once he finds he has nothing to he sits down. Stares at his hands. He was upset when he got here and now he feels absolutely wretched- _Friends are so bloody over-rated._

"What do I do?" he asks eventually, his voice quiet. "What does she want me to do in this situation?

I don't understand, and I hate not understanding."

For a long moment there's silence and then he feels the settee shift as Mary sits down beside him. He feels her hook her arm through his. After a second he feels the warmth of her head resting on his shoulder, her free hand on his knee.

Her presence is awfully soothing.

"You give her some time, Sherlock," she says softly. "You let her sort through her head and her heart- You can at least give her that.

If she's worthy of you then she'll come back to you, I promise…"

Holmes nods at his friend's advice but he can't bring himself to believe she's right.


	21. A Lily Amongst The Thorns

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their review as always go to Sherlockian_87, Sundance201, devilgrrl, renniejoy and ashockinglackofsatin. This is the end, hope you enjoy. And sure if you did, leave a review...

* * *

~ **A LILY AMONGST THE THORNS** ~

* * *

 

He lasts about a month.

A month of adventures, and experiments, and dinners with John and Mary.

A month of running down leads and tracing business partners and following up with the French police and Mycroft regarding the deaths which Milverton had wrought.

A month, in essence, of nonsensical busywork, of the sort a man puts himself through when he is trying awfully hard to keep his mind off a woman's absence. When he is trying to forget his feelings, and pretend that his wonderful, perfect life has not been thrown into disarray by some Molly-Come-Lately troublemaker in a wig and a false moustache and the most delectable-looking trousers this side of Paris-

So, a month.

Sherlock lasts a month.

_He is, to be honest, rather proud of it._

Everyone else in his acquaintance settles for being taken aback.

And then he wakes up one morning, quite early, and, being Sherlock Holmes, he decides that frankly, he's had enough of all this waiting for Molly nonsense. He's going to go see her and find out how she is. Never mind that she may have bad news for him, never mind that she may not wish to see his face. Never mind all that, her anger must be easier than living with her absence (at least that's what he tells himself).

So he does what he always does when inclined towards skullduggery and devilment: He takes himself off to visit Mary. Picks her front door lock and lets himself in though he has long had a key. (It helps to keep one's less salubrious skills sharp, he feels).

After his inevitable attack by potted plant (Mary being rather temperamental about his little incursions) he explains to her that she can help him make an idiot of himself or he will do it without her aid, but one way or another he's going to find his Molly-

She eyes him wryly, arms crossed over her chest.

Purely to prompt a reaction, he mirrors her and despite herself, her lips quirk into a smile.

"Fine!" she tone is long-suffering. "I'll help you find her. But so help me God, Sherlock, if this blows up in your face-"

"If this blows up in my face then I'll accept it," he says quietly. "You are not, despite all assertions to the contrary, the only person who can accept the consequences of her actions, dear heart."

At the use of the endearment her smile widens. Gentles.

She reaches out and takes his hand, gives it a squeeze. "I'll go get Clara," she says, "and put her in her perambulator." Her smile turns positively wicked and his matches it.

"You'd be amazed the devilment you can get up to, when you're pushing a baby around," she throws the words over her shoulder as she bustles out. "Nobody ever suspects you of anything."

Sherlock's smile lasts as long as it takes her to exit the room; Once she does, and despite his best intentions, the knot which has filled his stomach these past four weeks reasserts itself. Tightens. It's been doing that steadily since Paris.

Frankly, he thinks, he and Mary can't find Molly Hooper quickly enough-

Assuming, of course, that she wants to be found.

* * *

 

The choice of Mary as helpmeet proves an excellent one; she is, after all, in intimate contact with all sorts of people who might respond better to she than to Mycroft Holmes infamous younger brother.

She's also a good deal better at persuading people to open up than Sherlock is.

And so, within a couple of hours she has not only ascertained- merely through an exceedingly strong capacity for tea and crumpets- that Matthew Hooper left no forwarding information anywhere in London, but that a _Margaret Holmes_ caught a train to Glasgow a month ago.

She then continued towards Fort William, though she cannot be traced beyond it.

This former bit of information- that of Molly's pseudonym- has left Sherlock with a strange, tangling ball of energy darting about within him, an energy he's never felt before and subsequently cannot identify.

Mary says it's hope, Sherlock says that's asinine.

The knowing smile Mrs. Watson shoots him should be ground for murder but he manages to hold himself in check.

Still though, the sentiment persists. Its discomfiting nature too. Unable to be rid of it, Sherlock turns his thoughts to other things. Perusal of Scottish newspapers provides evidence of Thomas Hooper's death and his wife's apparent suicide. It also lists the small estate on which he resided and to which, Sherlock and Mary are both confident, Molly has returned. Sentiment being what it is, she would probably want to revisit the place where she and Thomas fell afoul of Sebastian Milverton, perhaps even visit her husband and child's graves. Tell them what happened. Tell them about Sherlock and the life she lives now.

Sherlock knows such notions are imbecilic- the dead are dead- and yet, in Molly's case, he feels he can understand it.

He even finds himself… hoping, that he gets a mention.

When he says as much Mary once again shoots him that murder-inducing smile and then bustles off.

She returns about ten minutes later with a bottle of beer, some fruit, two cornish pasties and a first class ticket to Fort William, return.

Given the information in hand, it's the only logical place to start, she says.

"Go get your dear-heart, dear-heart," she says smilingly.

Sherlock nods once, that energy inside him clawing up. Making his throat tighten up, his heart hammer in his chest. He wonders whether it's the fear of failure, or something else.

"I shall do my best, Mrs. Watson," he says, rather than think on that. "Pray, give my regards to John." He tips his hat to her, nods to the baby with wry gravitas. "As well as Miss Clara."

And with that he gets on the train. The whistle screams out as it begins to pull off, the sound of the wheels deafening. Through the smoke and steam he sees Mary holding up little Clara and waving, her smile hopeful.

He wishes his could match it.

And then the sight of his friend is lost to him and he's on his way North.

* * *

 

The journey seems to take forever, but eventually he gets there.

Once at Fort William he manages to find a helpful local who, for a few coins, will drive him out to Thomas Hooper's former estate, Loch Raven.

So he's bundled into a mail coach, his greatcoat wrapped tightly around him as the vehicle thunders over some of the most unmercifully uneven roads in Christendom. Holmes is jostled about, this way and that, and it is only with great difficulty that he manages not to end up covered in bruises, or given into inclination and shoot his driver.

Eventually though, as the sun is setting, he arrives at his destination. Hops out. He pays the older man and thanks him for his trouble. Sets out towards the wrought-iron gates which lead to the Loch Raven manor house. When he gets to the gates though, he finds them locked. They're almost rusted shut. The gate-house beside them is occupied- there's a light in the window- but there doesn't seem to be anyone about; The place looks deserted.

Not for the first time, Sherlock begins to doubt the wisdom of today's endeavours.

But he doesn't turn back. He's come too far to do so. Rather he looks up at the gates, assessing them. While scaling them is an option- he's done it before- he'd rather not be shot on sight. So for once Sherlock does he moderately sensible thing: He takes a small stone from the side of the road. Hefts it in his hand and then tosses it at the front window of the gate-house.

It lands smartly on target.

Unfortunately, while he meant only to garner some attention, there's a crack and then the sound of shattered glass.

The stone disappears inside the house and he realises that he must have thrown it a tinier bit harder than he intended.

He knows from past experience that that's not the best way to make the acquaintance of someone new.

He's proved right for as he watches the gate house's front door opens and a small, slim figure marches out, a shotgun held before her, her suspicious glower obvious.

She is so familiar that for a moment she takes his breath away.

Molly stares at Sherlock and Sherlock stares at Molly and then, very slowly, she lowers her gun. Stares at him some more.

"I'd ask how you found me," she says eventually, "but that would be idiotic."

And then, with a sigh, she reaches into her skirts and pulls out a large key. Opens the lock on the other side of the gates and pulls them slowly open.

They move with a screech.

Wordlessly, breathlessly, Sherlock walks through them and towards the gate house. His heart is doing some rather odd things in his chest. Molly walks after him, the shotgun's muzzle trailing against the ground-

Once he's inside he turns to her. Stares at her.

But for once he can find nothing to say.

* * *

 

"I'm not going to apologise."

That's the first thing she comes out with.

The tone is mulish. Defensive. Worried.

Given that he had not expected her to apologise, Sherlock finds this answer rather surprising. Surprisingly, and a bit idiotic. He rather expected more of her after all this time, though he has, at least, too much sense to say it.

"I'm not here to ask for an apology," he says in irritation. "I'm here because I want you to come back to London, and I'm sick of waiting for you to want the same-"

She raises her chin, her expression defiant.

"Who says I want to return to London?"

"I do." Sherlock looks at her like she's an imbecile. "Your talent, your skill, your intelligence and the life you fought so bloody hard for aren't here," he snaps. He frowns, remembers something. "Oh, and I'm not here either, which should count for something."

Apparently despite her better judgement her lips twitch in amusement.

"Oh?" she asks archly. "And that would be a factor in my decision, would it? Your absence?"

"Of course." Again Sherlock looks at her like she's an imbecile. Again her lips twitch. "Of course my absence would be a factor," he continues sensibly. "If I'm not here then who would kneel at your feet and worship you as you wish to be worshipped? Who would ask you to debauch him with such delicate, thorough care as I?"

He had meant the words to be brazen, careless, but as he speaks them he sees her eyes darken, her breath coming quicker. He is very aware that his own can match. Their gazes meet and he leans towards her, wanting, needing ,just as he has been for months… Just as she has been doing, if the look on her face is any indication...

And then suddenly she moves away. Turns her back to him.

She has somehow managed to manoeuvre a chair and a coffee table between them and Sherlock is damned if he knows how- Or why.

She's breathing heavily and her hands are tying themselves into knots at her sides; without thinking he crosses the room to her. Takes them in his own. She stiffens at his touch, goes to move away, but when she sees the look of hurt on his face she stops. Sighs again. Presses the crown of her head against his chest, her shoulders slumping in near defeat.

It looks almost pitiful.

"This is why I didn't have this conversation in person," she says quietly. Her tone sounds so… hopeless. "When you're near, when you're with me, I can't seem to think rationally…"

"That's something else we have in common, then," he says and she laughs, though that sounds hopeless too.

Slowly, carefully, he inhales the scent of her hair. Feels the warmth of her against him. After a moment he hesitantly pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her and with another small sigh she comes. Allows herself to be embraced thoroughly. Fully. _She fits so well inside his arms._ She melts against him, small and perfect, and for the first time in a month he feels like he can breathe.

When she looks up at him though, her smile is sad. Knowing.

It reminds him of their first night together, long ago in her flat in Chinatown.

"Why are you here, Sherlock?" she asks quietly. "Why did you follow me?"

He doesn't understand the need for the question. _He would have thought the answer bloody obvious to one so clever as she_. "Because you're my Molly, and I want to be with you," he says simply. "I don't like it when you're not about, and I especially don't like it when you're not in the morgue or my bed." He frowns. "Though not, necessarily, in that order."

She shakes her head, her smile tired now. Again he thinks that she looks hopeless and he wishes he could drive the emotion away from her. Make sure it never comes back.

"And what of the things you found out about me?" she asks quietly. "What of how Sebastian told you I behaved? What of that?"

He stares at her in confusion. "What?" he says. "The information that you were blackmailed into a vile and abusive union by a man who caused your husband's death? The information that you tried to save your innocent child from him, and fled only when you could not succeed?

Why would I care, but for how much you were hurt by it?"

She shakes her head. "You don't understand-"

"No, _you_ don't understand." He seldom speaks over her in matters of affection, but in this he must be clear.

She quite misunderstands him and he thinks he knows why.

"I don't care what you did, Molly," he says quietly. "I don't care what that bastard Milverton coerced you into doing. I don't even care that you lied to me about it- I might have lied too, given the circumstances-"

"But that's just it!" She snaps. "The circumstances, Sherlock! I let myself be controlled by the circumstances! I misrepresented myself as someone tough and capable when I was really weak and foolish. I let myself be used when I should have been strong."

She takes his hands in hers, a light in her eyes.

It's like she's willing him to understand but he does not.

"When we do the things we do," she's saying, "I'm responsible for you. I'm responsible for your pleasure, your heart, your safety, both physical and mental. I'm responsible for all we are together, because you give me your trust. How could you think of trusting me with something so precious, when I have proved myself so weak in the past?

How could you give me the opportunity to get your hurt, my beautiful, darling boy?"

And again her shoulders slump, but this time Sherlock understands. This time he sees it. This time he sees what she's fighting, for it's a foe he knows himself. It's always difficult, the knowledge that you have not been as much as you could be, that you have not behaved as you ought. Sometimes it's those with the highest standards who feel the fall the farthest short. But the difference is, when he fails, crimes don't get solved. Sometimes wrong-doers get away with things. Sometimes he gets irritated and irked and shoots the wall and bothers Mrs. Hudson.

When she fails, the people she loves get hurt- Or at least she believes they do.

_She failed to protect herself, her child or her husband from Milverton,_ Sherlock thinks.

_She believes she failed to protect him too, and that is frightening her._

Sherlock feels it for the first time in his life, the balm of having someone care so much for him that they're willing to put his happiness before theirs. He feels a wash of tenderness too, the will to keep those he loves from harm. And in that blazing, golden moment he realises what he has to do. What he might have to do a thousand times before she accepts it, but _-_

"Molly," he says softly, "would you do something for me?"

Her voice is suspicious. "What is it?"

"Take off my shirt, please."

She stares at him in apprehension.

"Why-?" she goes to ask, just as he repeats his request again. She shakes her head in confusion.

"Trust me, Molly," he says softly. "Please, do as I ask."

"Very well." And frowning, she crosses the room. Pushes his jacket off. She pushes his braces down his shoulders too, pulls his cuffs and collar out and then opens his cravat. She does all this easily, perfunctorily.

He keeps his eyes on her the entire time.

The preliminaries dealt with she opens his buttons, slides the linen off his shoulders and lets it pool on the floor behind him. Her eyes trained on his torso, her face a mask of disinterest, she takes in a deep breath. "What next?" she asks.

Her voice isn't quite steady.

He takes her hands, places them on his torso. Flattens her palms against one of his many scars, the one left from his last tussle with Adler.

When he speaks, his voice is as unsteady as hers.

"This is a gunshot wound," he says softly. "Snub-nosed pistol, small calibre, but it still nearly killed me." He takes her palm, moves it to another scar, this one on the small of his back. She sucks in a sharp breath through her nose as he does. "This was a knife fight in Vienna," he explains, "another near-death experience because of its placement though it didn't hurt nearly so much as the first-"

"I understand." She tries to move away from him but he doesn't let her. Rather he moves closer to her, tips her face up so she's looking at him. "It's not the same, Sherlock," she murmurs. "Your penchant for danger isn't the same as your letting me- your letting me-"

"They're both my choice."

He says the words so quietly, so gravely, that they brook no disagreement.

When she looks up at him her eyes are pools of darkness; they give nothing away.

"So I should choose to let you hurt yourself?" she asks.

"Do you trust me?" he asks, rather than answer her, and she nods. "Do you trust me to know what's best for me?"

Despite a gulp and a flash of worry in her eyes, she nods again.

"Then trust me to know what I'm choosing in you, and trust me to know how to protect myself from danger." He reaches down and presses a kiss to her lips and for once she doesn't pull away. "Trust me to love you, and trust yourself to love me," he says. "The rest we can work out as we go along… Dear-heart."

Her face warms at the endearment and she smiles slightly. Looks up at him. "You've never called me that before," she says.

He shrugs. "You've never before given me cause."

And then, eyes still on her, he reaches down and kisses her. Pulls her tightly to him, his arms filled with the feel of her after so long apart. Soon they're breathless, and helpless, the rest of Sherlock's clothes shucked, Molly's stiff, proper shirt-waist and blouse tossed somewhere and never to be seen again…

Sherlock kneels before her, her skirts pushed up to her waist, her mound pink and sweet and ready for him.

She looks so gorgeously wanton it makes his cock ache.

He sucks and licks and kisses her until she calls out her completion and then she presses him back onto the rug and rides him again. Takes him again.

It feels so good to be buried within her body once more that he thinks he might scream.

As she holds his arms above his head, their fingers lock together, tight as knots. Tight as thieves. When they come this time it's bright and loud and lovely.

It brings tears to Molly's eyes and tears to Sherlock's.

The next morning they catch a ride to Fort William and from there head for London, still hand in hand.


	22. Epilogue

The Strand Magazine                           

July 1898

Article by K. Reilly

* * *

**_A NEW DOCTOR IN BAKER STREET?_ **

* * *

 

_It has come to our attention, dear reader, that a new denizen has arrived at this hallowed address. Matthew Hooper, head pathologist at St Bartholomew’s Morgue, has apparently agreed to share rooms with the Great Detective, Sherlock Holmes, so familiar to readers of this magazine, though he will not be joining him in his crime-solving._

_Hooper, whom Holmes met through his work, is notoriously publicity-shy but Doctor John Watson has confirmed that this pathologist will be moving into his old rooms in Baker Street post haste. Well known suffragette and political activist Mrs. Mary Watson has likewise confirmed that her old friend has a new living companion, though she has asked the press to respect this newcomer’s privacy as they once respected hers-_

“Respected hers, my arse,” Sherlock mutters, folding the paper and pushing it away from him. “They chased her for months- It became so intolerable that Mycroft had to intervene-”

“That was because Mary was, well, Mary,” Molly says soothingly, pulling off her wig and stepping over to him. Curling in his lap on the sofa.

With a grin he pulls off her moustache and then kisses her, like, well, like a fiend.

Given the sharp way she tugs his hair, he can tell she has no complaints.

When they have to pull apart she grins at him, bright-eyed and happy. So different from the woman he first knew. The woman he first fell in love with. The last years have been a gift for them, they truly have, and he finds himself grateful for it.

Tomorrow the press will be a pain, and the past will still be a bad memory, but for the here and now he’s happy and he knows his Molly feels the same.


End file.
